


all my stars

by pantheras (rewindmp3)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Star tear disease AU, mentions of social anxiety, star tear disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewindmp3/pseuds/pantheras
Summary: what good is wishing on stars if, for every tear that falls and every wish that taeyong makes, johnny still doesn’t love him back?
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten, Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 176





	1. meeting

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/rchimedesu/status/1246209686682185730)!

Here’s the thing: Johnny doesn’t remember.

It’s not like Taeyong expects Johnny to remember him, really. They’d only ever been in one class together, during their last year of primary school, and, back then, Taeyong hadn’t exactly been the type to make friends.

Back then, Taeyong had always been the quiet kid, content to entertain himself. He would catch himself yearning, sometimes, to be part of the fun and the roughhousing, the loud screams on the playground during recess, but every time he tried, he found himself gripped by fear, paralyzed. It wasn’t until a few years later, when he could explain his feelings more eloquently than “panic,” that he and his family realized he might have social anxiety, and he was able to start going to therapy after receiving a diagnosis.

He was lucky, back then, to have immediately clicked with his therapist, who has now been with him for the better part of a decade. He was lucky, back then, to have been in the same class as one Seo Youngho during the fifth grade, because when Taeyong was finally able to start thinking about who he wanted to _be_ , as a person who had to interact with other people (when he was finally able to control, to a certain extent, being scared), he would remember the bright, bright boy in his fifth grade class, with a warm smile and even warmer heart, and think to himself, _You can do that, too, if you try hard enough_.

Even as ten year olds, there were still people who thought that being popular meant that you could be mean, that you could make fun of others for things as inane as looks or voice or introvertedness, as if those were things that could be controlled or meant anything at all when you were ten. Or at any point in life, really.

But then there was Youngho. Kind, kind Youngho who loved to make people laugh, who greeted everyone with a grin, who everyone loved, and who loved everyone right back.

He was never mean, never exclusive. He even invited Taeyong to his going away party at the end of fifth grade, when he was supposed to move back to America. Taeyong hadn’t gone, back then, because he and Youngho weren’t actually _friends_ and the thought of all those people was _terrifying_ , but it’s still something that Taeyong remembers, to this day, when he thinks about the kind of person he wants to be.

So, yeah. Johnny doesn’t remember Taeyong, but Taeyong remembers Johnny, but he doesn’t _really_ remember Johnny either, because he remembers Youngho and he’s not quite sure if Johnny—if this giant tree of a man, now 21 and in his last year of college—is the same Youngho that Taeyong remembers.

Taeyong has his hopes, though, because the smile that Johnny shoots him when he says, “I’m Johnny Suh, or, like, Seo Youngho. Whichever works!” is just as warm as Taeyong remembers.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Like most of the problems in Taeyong’s college life, this one starts with Ten.

Well, to give credit where credit is due, this one _technically_ starts with Yuta, with his invitation of Taeyong and Ten to a “welcome back to campus and a new school year” party hosted by Yuta and some of his soccer teammates.

Taeyong blames Ten, though, because while this could’ve been like most other parties Yuta invites him to (where Taeyong declines politely, citing exhaustion and work and introversion, and Yuta simply agrees because he _knows_ , but invites Taeyong every time anyways because he wouldn’t be one of Taeyong’s best friends if he didn’t), it wasn’t.

It wasn’t like most other party invitations because Ten begged him to go, as much as Ten ever begs for anything.

Normally, Ten doesn’t need to beg. Ten is extroverted and bold and daring in a way that Taeyong admires. Ten is self-assured in a way that gets him what he wants, in a way that pushes him—and those around him—out of familiarity, out of the ordinary. Being like Ten is not something Taeyong thinks he could ever manage (or wants, really), but he is grateful to have met Ten anyways, because Ten has led Taeyong into doing things he otherwise never would’ve.

It’s not that Ten is inconsiderate of Taeyong, either. Sure, there are sometimes when Ten acts before he thinks, and pulls Taeyong along with him. Sometimes, it makes Taeyong incredibly anxious, but when that happens Ten always knows, and he always apologizes. The fact that Ten shines like a beacon of light is good, too, in addition to his perceptiveness. Ten can tell, most of the time, when Taeyong is starting to feel uncomfortable and knows how to deflect attention onto himself or manipulate the situation seamlessly. It’s a skill that Taeyong has come to greatly appreciate.

So, Ten understands how Taeyong feels in crowds, knows about the therapy and the fear, and he’d mentioned it when he asked Taeyong to go. He told Taeyong that it was fine, _really_ , if Taeyong didn’t want to come, but Taeyong agreed because Ten was actually _nervous_ , for the first time in maybe forever, to go to a party by himself.

According to Yuta, Jaehyun would be there.

According to Ten, he and Jaehyun had _officially_ met over the summer, both at an internship for a fashion magazine. Officially, because they had seen each other at parties and the like before, but had never actually talked to each other.

Ten, of course, was interning at the magazine because he lived and breathed fashion and art (along with dance), and it showed in everything that Ten did, in everything that Ten was. Jaehyun was there because he loved to write and he found journalism fascinating. He loved putting words together, in the same way that Ten loved putting pieces of fabric together or strokes of a brush together or a series of movements together, to make something beautiful.

They had bonded over beauty, Ten had not stopped talking about Jaehyun all summer, and Taeyong could not stop smiling every time he heard Ten so happy.

For all of Ten’s bravado, he just wanted to be understood.

If Ten thought that Jaehyun understood him, Taeyong was going to do everything in his power to help his friend get what he deserved.

Besides, in the wise words of Fergie, a little party never killed nobody, right?

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

At 11pm on the Saturday before the official start of classes, Taeyong finds himself at the entrance to a frat house.

The party, Yuta had explained, was sort of a joint collaboration between the soccer team and the frat because a lot of the soccer players were in the frat. Quite frankly, Taeyong didn’t care one way or another, but Yuta gets so excited any time he mentions the team that Taeyong had just let him talk.

He’s dressed very simply: a white graphic tee tucked into a pair of ripped, black skinny jeans with his feet shoved into a pair of old Vans he doesn’t care about getting ruined. Honestly, he’s looked more put together and has worn more ostentatious clothes to dance practice. It’s not like he’s trying to impress anyone tonight; he’s just here for moral support. Ten had taken one look at him and snorted, “Fine. Fuckin’ pretty privilege.” Why Ten talks like he isn’t _also_ pretty and _knows it_ is beyond Taeyong.

Ten, on the other hand, is dressed to kill. He brushed subtle makeup over his lids that sharpens his eyes, makes his gaze even more dangerous than it already is. Ten is a fashion student, so his outfit is impeccable: a muscle tee he designed himself, tight leather pants, a well-worn pair of easy-to-clean creepers that still look better than probably every other person’s shoes at the party. He’s wearing layers of thin, silver chains, too, both around his neck and adorning his ears. It’s an outfit that, Taeyong knows, will draw attention to Ten in the crowd of people, if his presence alone isn’t enough. Which, well, it probably will be.

People stare at them as they pass the throng at the front porch easily, though Taeyong can’t tell if it’s because of what Ten’s wearing or because of the way they bypass the wait. They aren’t freshmen, for fuck’s sake. They _know_ people.

Yuta swings the door open to let them in. He loops his arms around both their shoulders and the three of them maneuver their way through the cluster of bodies towards the bar.

There’s a rule at college parties: the only people allowed behind the bar are the bartender(s), the host(s) of the party, and the close friends of the host(s). This rule means that whenever Yuta invites Taeyong to parties, and Taeyong accepts, he knows he has a safe space. People care less about respecting unspoken rules about going upstairs, especially when they’re horny, _especially_ when they need to pee. But behind the bar? Untouchable.

After making small-talk with the others behind the bar, Ten takes a few shots with Yuta while Taeyong watches on, amused.

“Are you ready now?” Taeyong teases.

Ten nods his head resolutely and waves his phone, “Jaehyun just texted me where he was. We’ll see if I can find him.”

“If you don’t text me in an hour, I’ll assume everything’s fine and I’m gonna head home, okay?”

“I know, TY, we talked about it before we left,” Ten rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ll even set an alarm, just for you.” Ten really does set an alarm for an hour later with the heading, “TEXT TAEYONG!!!” He pockets his phone after he does so and offers them a two finger salute.

“Go get ‘im, tiger!” Yuta shouts as Ten melts into the crowd.

Taeyong’s giggles evaporate into silence after a few moments.

“You okay?” Yuta asks.

“Just concerned, is all,” Taeyong answers. “Ten seems to really like this guy.”

Yuta’s face softens in comprehension, “He’ll be okay. From what he’s told us, this guy seems to really like him, too.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if he can handle Ten.”

“Doubt it,” Yuta snorts.

Taeyong shoos Yuta off afterwards (“This is a _soccer_ party, and you’re the soccer team _captain_!”), promising that he’ll be fine by himself, tucked into this little corner of the kitchen. He settles himself into a chair and begins playing games on his phone.

He zones out for a good amount of time, intent on leveling up as much as he can while he’s stuck here with nothing else to do. His concentration is only broken after he hears a “Hey” coming from close to his left ear.

“Gimme a sec,” Taeyong grits out, propriety taking a backseat to beating the level he’s on. He’ll think about this later, when he’s under his covers, and agonize over the fact that he can’t seem to have one normal interaction with a stranger. Now, though, the voice just chuckles, “Take your time.”

He beats the level, saves the game, turns towards the sound of the voice, and apologizes, “Sorry about that. Did you need anything?”

Taeyong is met with the sight of droopy eyes, lips pulled into a smile, floppy brown hair, and legs that seem to go on for miles. He thinks very little of it, other than the fact that the eyes are kind and make him less nervous than he usually is when he’s talking to someone new.

“Not really,” the person replies. “I was gonna ask if you wanted anything to drink.”

“Oh,” Taeyong says, “I’m fine. I’m not really trying to drink tonight, so.”

The person hums in acknowledgement as he fixes something for himself and Taeyong thinks that will be that. He’s about to start the next level when the person speaks up again, “Not that you need to drink in order to have fun at a party, and also not that you owe me an answer if you don’t want to, but can I ask why you’re here?”

Taeyong stills. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Feels discomfort trickle up his spine.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean for that to be rude or nosy or anything!” the person blurts out, eyes wide and worried. “I was just curious ‘cause you’ve been in this corner behind the bar for the better part of an hour, and seem perfectly content to continue staying here when… well, when there’s a whole ass party happening.”

“You’ve been watching me for that long?” Taeyong asks, incredulous.

The person flushes red and splutters, “Sorry! At first I was just concerned, but when I realized that you were perfectly content, I got kinda curious. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable!”

“It’s… that’s fine, I guess.” Taeyong winces at how fucking _awkward_ this entire situation is. He doesn’t think the person is at fault, like it is when he meets others for the first time, but the circumstances of their conversation are making him overanalyze. He’s suddenly very aware of his limbs and shoves his hands and phone into his pockets so he can stop thinking about how his arms are flopping uselessly at his sides. It doesn’t work. “I’m just here for moral support. Like. For a friend. Yeah.”

“That’s cool,” the person replies easily, seeming to have recovered. Taeyong wishes he could do that in social situations, bounce back quickly from embarrassment. “You’re a good friend for coming here, especially when you’ve been by yourself this whole time.”

Taeyong shrugs, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

There’s a lull in whatever weird back and forth they’ve been having and Taeyong isn’t religious at all, but he seriously prays that this person will finally go back to the party and leave him alone.

Taeyong will continue to not be religious, however, because the person opens their mouth again and says, “I’m Johnny Suh, or, like, Seo Youngho. Whichever works!”

That name… that name… where has Taeyong heard that name before?

Then, it clicks. _Fifth grade_. Taeyong hopes that his eyes aren’t bulging out of his head right now, because that’s certainly what it feels like—like his entire brain is imploding—when the realization hits.

_Holy shit. Is it actually Seo Youngho, in the flesh, after all these years? It has to be him. Two names and one of them is english? What a small world. When the fuck did he get so tall?_

He doesn’t get the chance to dwell on it too much. His phone rings the next second, jolting Taeyong out of his shock. He unfreezes his limbs to pick up the call.

“TY, let’s go home,” Ten says from the other line before Taeyong even has the chance to say “hello.”

“Are you okay?” Taeyong asks, brows furrowing in concern. From what Taeyong can hear over the music and chorus of voices, Ten doesn’t sound too distraught. But then why is he asking to go back home? “Where are you?”

“I’m outside” is all that Taeyong gets. “Let’s go home.”

Ten abruptly ends the call after that, and Taeyong can only stare at his phone in bewilderment. _What the fuck happened?_

Johnny’s been watching this whole time. When Taeyong stands up and shoves his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, Johnny asks, “Everything alright?”

His voice is full of concern, and even though Taeyong isn’t entirely sure that this Johnny is the same Youngho from fifth grade, he can’t help but think that this kind of sincerity is exactly like the Youngho he remembers.

“Not sure,” Taeyong answers. “Duty calls, though.”

Johnny nods in response, “Good luck. Nice meeting you!”

Taeyong waves awkwardly, then takes long strides towards the front door. He thinks he hears Johnny call out to him again (maybe to ask a question?), but before he considers turning back to double check that he wasn’t being spoken to, Taeyong has already entered the throng of sweaty bodies and heavy bass.

And that, Taeyong thinks, should be that.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

He’s wrong, though, of course he is. He’s half-convinced that the universe hates him.

The first piece of evidence that the universe hates him is that the Starbucks near campus doesn’t have nearly as many packets of dried sweet potato snacks as Taeyong wants to buy, which kind of sucks because he’s been looking forward to this all day. He’s had a long-ass day of classes, and the soreness from both class and practice is starting to set into his muscles, and he _really_ wanted a shit ton of those snacks as a pick-me-up. He’ll have to come back again tomorrow when they restock the shelves.

The second piece of evidence is the fact that when Taeyong fiddles with his phone while waiting for the baristas to make his usual (a grande pink drink), someone taps his shoulder.

The “someone,” of course, is none other than Johnny Suh.

“Hey!” Johnny greets Taeyong with a bright voice and even brighter smile. “You were at the soccer team’s party last Saturday, yeah? Behind the bar?”

“Mhm, that was me,” Taeyong says. God, he hopes they finish making his drink soon. “Johnny, right?” As if Taeyong could forget.

“Yup!” Taeyong wonders how so much enthusiasm can be stored in a single person at 4pm in the afternoon. “I don’t think I ever got your name, though.”

“Grande pink drink for Taeyong!” a barista calls out. Taeyong turns to take the drink, bowing slightly and offering a quick word of thanks before the barista announces more completed orders.

“So, Taeyong, then,” Johnny grins.

“Yeah,” Taeyong responds, “Lee Taeyong.”

Sooner than Taeyong can excuse himself and _leave_ , now that he has his snacks and his drink, Johnny hums thoughtfully, “Y’know, I used to go to elementary school with someone who had the exact same name. We were in the same fifth grade class.”

What?

“H- how do you still remember that?”

Johnny’s name and order (a venti iced americano, which is pretty aggressive for 4pm on a weekday, in Taeyong’s opinion) are called, and Johnny smiles apologetically at Taeyong before taking his drink.

They move away from the order counter, in order to not clog up the space, and, to Taeyong’s slight perturbation, Johnny doesn’t even stop to add sugar or milk or _anything_ to his iced americano. It turns out that they’re heading in the same direction (although, Taeyong is going back to his apartment, while Johnny is going to another class) and never in a million years would Taeyong have imagined himself walking alongside Seo Youngho, engaged in a casual conversation.

“Anyways,” Johnny says when they’ve made it out of Starbucks, “I remember a lot about that year because it was a big year for me? My family was moving back to Chicago, where I was until college, so I remember everything that happened around that time pretty vividly. Plus, if I’m being honest, he always made me super curious. I remember that he never really hung out with the rest of the kids in our class, but he also never really seemed sad about it. I think he was shy? But he’d read or doodle or otherwise be in his own little world, and I remember thinking that it was pretty cool, how someone could be creative enough to entertain themselves like that.”

Taeyong is stunned. He’s never seen himself as particularly admirable, especially not the traits and actions he links to his social anxiety. It’s interesting—and a little disorienting, to say the least—to hear a compliment from a stranger.

“Also, he was the one person who didn’t come to my going away party. Sad.”

It’s abundantly clear that Johnny’s just saying that for humor’s sake and he definitely doesn’t _actually_ care, but Taeyong feels the overwhelming need to apologize anyways.

“Ah, um,” he says, “sorry about that?”

One of Johnny’s eyebrows raises. “What?”

“I think… I think that was me? NCity Elementary? Ms. Kim’s fifth grade class, right?”

“Holy shit,” Johnny breathes, voice full of shock. Taeyong relates. “Oh my god that’s so embarrassing! I just said all of that to your face! Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“It’s fine,” Taeyong giggles. It’s kind of nice seeing someone who is as extroverted and as bright as Johnny is get flustered. Although, Johnny still has that unflappably comfortable aura around him, sure of himself in spite of his embarrassment. Taeyong thinks he can learn a thing or two, but, then again, when hasn’t he thought that?

“I wasn’t actually sure if you were the same as the Seo Youngho I remembered anyways,” Taeyong continues.

Johnny makes a little noise in the back of his throat in understanding. They walk in silence for a couple of steps, before the playful, teasing lilt of Johnny’s voice breaks it. “So, why didn’t you come to my party? Wasn’t cool enough for you?”

Taeyong laughs in disbelief, more an exhale of air than anything else. “The exact opposite, actually. You were right earlier: I _was_ super shy in elementary school. I, um, have social anxiety and it was pretty bad before I started going to therapy for it.” Johnny begins to open his mouth, surely to apologize, but before he can, Taeyong waves his hand, as if batting Johnny’s concerns away. “It’s a lot more manageable now, so don’t worry about, like, making me feel uncomfortable or whatever. But that’s why I didn’t go. I mean, we weren’t really friends or anything back then, and I knew there would be a lot of people there because everyone adored you, and it freaked me out.”

Truth be told, it shouldn’t come out this easily. While he’s gotten exponentially more comfortable with his social anxiety over the years, it’s still not something he readily mentions. He doesn’t like the uncertainty of people’s reactions, doesn’t like the baring of his vulnerabilities. It had taken Taeyong several weeks of friendship with both Ten and Yuta (two and three years ago, respectively) before he brought it up.

It wasn’t that Taeyong felt an awkward tension when he first met Ten and Yuta, because he didn’t. With them—and now, with Johnny—there was an inexplicable sort of solace in their presences, before Taeyong even got close to them. If Taeyong felt off when he first met them, if he didn’t know what to do with his own body and he felt like he wanted to flee, it was because of the situation, not the person, and Taeyong has learned to be able to tell the difference.

Johnny made it easy. Taeyong isn’t sure if it’s the residual attachment that he had towards who Johnny was when they were 10, but Johnny made him feel safe.

“Ah,” Johnny says as he scratches the back of his neck, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s okay, really,” Taeyong reassures. “Here, I’ll tell you something embarrassing in return.” At this, Johnny perks up, face blatantly curious. “If you remembered me, then I also remembered you.”

Johnny’s lips stretch into a smile, and Taeyong looks away to hide the blush undoubtedly overtaking his neck and cheeks.

“I remembered you for how kind and open you were, and admired how easily you made friends with everyone. Like, you invited me, this kid you barely talked to, to your party, right? I always remembered that kindness and have tried to emulate it and stuff when I’m meeting new people. I’m probably doing a shit job, but, y’know, it’s the thought that counts.”

“That’s really…. Wow, thank you.” Johnny says quietly. Taeyong risks a glance back at Johnny, upon hearing the sincerity in his voice, and finds a fond wonderment in Johnny’s eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” Johnny continues as he brings them to a halt in front of a lecture hall, “I think you’re doing a fantastic job.”

Taeyong stares down at his feet as he mumbles a quick thanks and feels his cheeks heating up even more. He’s expecting Johnny to say goodbye and for them to head their separate ways.

What he doesn’t expect is the phone that enters his line of sight, screen bright and open to a new contact page.

“We might not have been friends in fifth grade, but I’d really love to be friends now,” Johnny says by way of explanation.

His entire body is red, Taeyong is sure of it, but he nods anyways and enters in his number with deceptively steady hands. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket a few seconds after he hands Johnny’s phone back.

“I have class now, but let’s catch up soon!”

Johnny walks backwards while waving, pushes the door open with his hip, and disappears into the building.

There’s a text on Taeyong’s phone that reads, “it’s johnny! ^^,” a smile blooming across his face, and relief warming his chest.

This, though, is how all of Taeyong’s problems begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you guys knew me as a markbum writer at all, you’ll know that i’ve returned to my bread and butter of college aus :D more specifically, i’ve been calling this fic [markbum hanahaki](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12598860) 2.0
> 
> i usually dislike explicitly naming made-up schools/teachers, but it really couldn’t be avoided here, or else they couldn’t have actually identified each other :S
> 
> re: the mentions of social anxiety — the general feelings and stuff that i’ve written here/will be in the rest of the fic are based off of irl experiences&discussions, so i apologize in advance for the fact that what’s depicted is most likely not an accurate reflection of a broader experience. if anyone has input/criticisms/things they think i should be aware of/include, please let me know!!
> 
> otherwise, i hope the fic is okay so far! comments & kudos are always appreciated ^.^ ♡
> 
>   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/maddogmp3) || [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/maddogmp3)


	2. falling

Johnny texts Taeyong a few days later, asking if he’s free to grab lunch sometime over the weekend.

Obviously, since it’s the start of the semester, Taeyong has time in abundance, but the fact that Johnny’s given him an out is nice.

They meet up at this tiny, hole-in-the wall noodle place that Taeyong’s never heard of in his entire time at university so far. It’s small and cozy and the way the auntie in the front absolutely lights up when she sees Johnny—then proceeds to stand on her tippy toes to pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair—makes Taeyong feel at ease.

The auntie coos at Taeyong as well, tells him that he’s handsome in one breath and chastises him for being too skinny in the next. It’s familiar, even though he’s never been here before. It’s nice.

Lunch is nice, too.

Taeyong learns that Johnny’s a pre-law student, majoring in history because “poli-sci majors don’t pass the vibe check.” He learns that Johnny’s been interested in law ever since he was little, and Taeyong finds it incredibly fitting, that someone as accepting and compassionate as Johnny would be interested in justice and seeing justice granted.

Johnny learns that Taeyong is double majoring in music production and dance. He learns that Taeyong never quite found his purpose when he was younger, but rather stumbled across both of those fields more or less by accident, found that he absolutely loved them, and has been grateful for that twist of fate ever since.

Taeyong learns that Johnny decided to study in Korea for college in an effort to find belonging. Johnny tells him that there’s something uniquely isolating about the immigrant experience, even in a country that prides itself on being a melting pot of cultures (which, Johnny scoffs, isn’t _really_ true), even in one of the most densely populated cities in that country.

In a selfish way, it’s gratifying to hear that Johnny’s experience is not so unlike Taeyong’s quest to move away from home for college. Just because a place has been “home” for his whole life, doesn’t necessarily mean that he feels like he _belongs_. Just because Johnny seems to be comfortable and settled in every circumstance that Taeyong’s seen him in, doesn’t mean that he actually _is_.

Johnny becomes more of a _person_ before Taeyong’s eyes, even in that short hour or two, rather than the caricature of one that Taeyong’s remembered for a decade. It’s reassuring that Taeyong clicks so well with Johnny-the-person, because the image of Youngho-the-caricature isn’t _that_ far off from the real human being and Taeyong’s remembrance can be somewhat justified.

On their way back to campus, after they’ve split the bill and Taeyong has promised the auntie who greeted them that he would come back soon, Johnny asks, “What ended up happening with your friend? The one you went to the party for?”

“Oh!” Taeyong’s eyes crinkle at the memory. “Everything was fine! Long story short, he was meeting someone he had a crush on at the party. They talked things through and realized that they both liked each other a lot and wanted to date, but since both of them were a little drunk, they decided not to do anything that night, y’know, to start their relationship on the right foot or something. Ten just has a penchant for being dramatic and loves giving me heart attacks for no reason.”

The last part Taeyong says with mock-annoyance, but it’s so painstakingly obvious that he’s nothing but happy that things worked out for Ten.

“Ten…? Wait, like, Jaehyun’s Ten?”

“Oh my god, yeah, do you know them?”

“Jaehyun’s one of my best friends,” Johnny laughs, “and wouldn’t shut up about Ten the entire summer. And this week, too, now that they’re dating.”

Not for the first time since meeting Johnny, Taeyong thinks to himself, _What a small world_.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Taeyong’s life doesn’t change much after he grabs lunch with Johnny.

It’s just that, in between dance practices with Ten, having Ghibli movie marathons with Yuta, and holing himself up in one of the music department’s studios, Taeyong finds himself hanging out with Johnny.

The classes at their university usually meet on alternating days, which means that Taeyong sees Johnny at Starbucks every other weekday at around 4pm. Taeyong always gets there first because his class is closer and his professor, bless her, always lets them out on time. Taeyong doesn’t order from the app (because he never knows how many dried sweet potato packets they’ll have in stock), but Johnny does and only ever gets a venti iced americano.

If Taeyong’s still in line, he’ll feel a hand clasp the juncture of his neck and shoulder, right at the top of his spine. The first time that happened, Taeyong nearly jumped out of his skin. Now, he knows that he’ll turn and see Johnny’s smile and Johnny will stand with him until it’s his turn to pay for his snacks and order his grande pink drink. If Taeyong has already ordered, he’ll feel the same hand at the same place because his back is towards the entrance when he’s facing the order counter, waiting.

They don’t spend too much time together, lest Johnny be late for his class, but it’s enough for them to catch up with each other, for them to complain about classes throughout the day and annoying assignments and their already fucked sleep schedules, only a few weeks into the semester. It’s enough to build a sense of camaraderie—friendship, if you will—and it’s enough for Taeyong to feel like it’s _okay_ to text Johnny casually, randomly, even on the days when they don’t see each other.

Johnny makes it clear that he values Taeyong’s friendship and his company, too, which Taeyong is incredibly grateful for. He’ll text Taeyong when he’s bored in class, ask Taeyong to grab a meal, and offer to do work together, even though they’re studying completely different things. It seems like such a bare minimum thing to expect from a person, from a friend, but, well. Even with Taeyong’s preference for keeping only a few close friends at a time, he’s come across people who _haven’t_ made it clear that they value him or his time, people who have spiked his anxiety so high that he couldn’t focus on anything else for _weeks_.

Moral of the story: Johnny’s a good friend.

Great, in fact. 

Like, a little over a month into the semester, Taeyong came down with something. Ten pinned it on the fact that Taeyong was already overworking himself (not true), Yuta blamed it on the fact that Taeyong has a weak constitution (also not true), and Taeyong was far too sick to care how he became bedridden with fever sweats, a stomachache, and a nasty migraine.

Taeyong spent the day drifting in and out of consciousness, lucid enough to email his professors but too groggy for just about everything else.

Yuta had stopped by in the morning, before he left for the weekend because of a soccer away-game, to drop off medicine and to make sure Taeyong ate something. He had helped Taeyong out of his sweat-soaked pajamas into a new set of comfy clothes, and told Taeyong that he still looked pretty. Ten, too, had come in the afternoon with food and various flavors of gatorade. He didn’t utter a word of complaint when Taeyong’s stomach decided to upend itself—just helped Taeyong clean up, joked about how he should’ve picked better food, and made Taeyong a huge vat of congee.

Johnny had texted him some time in the afternoon, around half an hour before when they would usually meet, asking Taeyong if he was okay, and Taeyong had responded that he was still kind of dying. He’d also apologized for not being able to go to Starbucks, lamenting the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see Johnny and, most importantly, that he wouldn’t be able to stock up on his dried sweet potato snacks either.

A barrage of various affronted texts and pouting emojis came soon after. They put a small smile on Taeyong’s face before he succumbed to his body’s exhaustion and fell back asleep.

Sharp knocks jolted Taeyong from his nap, because even when ill, he’s a light sleeper. He wasn’t sure what time it was but when he glanced outside his windows, the sun had almost completely set.

The knocking became more insistent, so Taeyong rubbed the gunk from his eyes, pulled his covers over his shoulders like a burrito-cape, and trudged towards the entryway. He wasn’t even sure who it could be. Yuta was literally hours away, and Taeyong knew that Ten had an evening class, which is why he stopped by in the afternoon to begin with.

When he swung his door open, he came face to face with Johnny—Johnny, whose lips were smiling but whose eyes were concerned.

“Hi.”

Taeyong blinked once. Twice. Then, when he was sure he wasn’t hallucinating, “How do you know where I live?”

Johnny laughed, light and airy, “I had Jaehyun ask Ten for your address. I hope that’s okay. Will you let me in? I come bearing gifts!”

He raised his right hand, and Taeyong saw that Johnny had both a takeout bag from the noodle place (“I told the auntie you were sick and she made, like, twice as much as usual”) and a Starbucks bag (“because I know you care about your dried sweet potatoes more than you care about me” accompanied by a dramatic sigh) dangling from his fingers.

Taeyong let go of his hold on the doorknob, but the sudden loss of stability combined with a wave of nausea had him nearly falling over. Johnny steadied him quickly with the hand that wasn’t laden with bags, forced Taeyong into a blanket cocoon, and spent the next several hours fussing over Taeyong.

If Taeyong were anything but deeply ill, he definitely wouldn’t let himself be taken care of like this by anyone other than Yuta or Ten. He’d suck it up and insist he was fine because one of the things he hates the most is feeling like a burden. Objectively, he knows that people rarely see him as such, especially when he’s sick or injured, but it’s hard to turn off the voice in his head that tells him that he’s annoying for needing help, that nobody actually cares about him.

Johnny had stayed so long that he was still there when Ten’s class finished. Ten had fussed over Taeyong some more—claiming to not trust Johnny, much to Johnny’s chagrin—and once Ten was satisfied, the three of them had watched _Drumline_ in his living room before Taeyong was forcibly tucked back into bed.

All this to say, hanging out with Johnny has become a regular part of Taeyong’s routine for the semester, and Taeyong would be surprised by how quickly he’s gained a new friend if it didn’t feel so much like fate.

Actually, two new friends.

With Johnny (and Ten) comes Jaehyun.

He’s an adorable little brother to have and doesn’t even complain when Taeyong pinches his cheeks. His competitiveness mixed with Ten’s penchant for teasing and goading makes for fantastic entertainment, and Taeyong is _so glad_ to see someone who matches Ten so well.

The five of them—Taeyong, Yuta, Ten, Johnny, Jaehyun— also match each other well, if their group chat is anything to go by, and it settles something restless and fearful in Taeyong that he can find a group dynamic as nice as this one despite it being his last year of university.

So, yeah. Taeyong’s life doesn’t change much after he grabs lunch with Johnny.

It’s just that, a few weeks into his last year of university, Taeyong feels like he’s found a new best friend.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Taeyong can’t help it, then, the way he falls in love.

It happens slowly, scattered throughout the part and parcel of everyday life. It happens between Starbucks runs and meals at the hole-in-the-wall noodle place and telling his therapist about the new friends he’s made and studying in one of the libraries on campus and TV show binges in each other’s apartments and exploring cafés and shopping trips into the downtown area for plants and clothes alike.

The first time that last thing happens, they’re a little over two months into the semester.

They’re at Starbucks and Taeyong is complaining to Johnny about how neither Yuta nor Ten will go into the city with him. There’s a new plant shop that opened up and Taeyong’s too eager to visit the shop in person to worry about how well Instagram’s algorithm and explore page know him.

“Both of them _suck_ ,” Taeyong whines. “They said they quote ‘don’t want to feed into my plant obsession,’ which, first of all, it’s not an obsession and, second of all, even if it were, how is taking care of plants a bad thing?”

Johnny laughs as Taeyong reaches for his drink and they begin to head out, “Well, the last time I checked, your apartment is already basically a planetarium.” Taeyong shoots him a glare. “But, I mean! Nothing wrong with more!”

“Just because they kill every green thing that they touch doesn’t mean that _I_ can’t look after all my plants. I’m a fantastic plant parent, if I do say so myself.”

“Mmm, yes you are.” Johnny’s teasing him, Taeyong can tell, with his voice full of humor and indulgence, but he’s agreeing so Taeyong supposes he’ll take it.

“Which area is it in again?”

Taeyong immediately opens up the photo he’s saved on Instagram, clicks the location, and shows Johnny. Johnny swaps out his iced americano for Taeyong’s phone, zooms in and out of the map to see the street names and general neighborhood.

“I’ll go with you,” he says as he hands Taeyong’s phone back and reclaims his coffee.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Johnny answers easily. “There’s a café around there that I’ve been meaning to go to anyways. That area’s also got some really nice boutiques and, you know me, I never say no to more clothes.”

At that, they share a grin. Another thing Taeyong’s learned about Johnny—and that Johnny’s learned about Taeyong—is just how much he loves clothes. Neither of them are Ten, of course, but both of them have closets close to bursting.

While Taeyong’s style is a little more eccentric and streetwear oriented, Johnny’s is more business casual chic. Perhaps it’s a perk of what Taeyong’s studying, that he’s _allowed_ to dress like that: nobody says anything if his look is a little more experimental and he’s grateful that he gets to be comfortable in what he’s wearing, rather than have his outfits contribute to everything else he already overthinks when dealing with _people_.

Johnny has to contend with all the other pre-law kids. He goes a little bit more casual on the weekends—more hoodies and joggers and sneakers—but his outfits during the week are every classy, minimalist’s dream. Every time Taeyong’s seen him during the week, Johnny’s wearing a nice t-shirt or sweater tucked into slacks or dark wash jeans, with loafers or sneakers adorning his feet. And his coats are to die for.

They’ve started to influence the other’s style, too, incorporating aspects of the other’s wardrobe into their own outfits. Taeyong finds himself reaching for more formal pieces, mixing and matching them with his usual casual streetwear, and Johnny has started to wear more unique, sometimes outlandish graphics and accessories, rather than sticking with what’s simple and clean.

They go into the city that weekend, both too excited about the outing to push it to the next. Their midterm exams and projects won’t thank them for the trip, but it wouldn’t be university without the promise of instant gratification leading to a slew of semi-questionable decisions.

The café is their first stop. It’s tucked into a little corner on a quiet off street with lovely decor and friendly staff. Johnny doesn’t let Taeyong touch his pastry _or_ his coffee for a good five minutes, as he uses the camera slung around his neck to take pictures of anything and everything in the café, at all the angles he can think of.

They go shopping next, once they’ve finished their food and their drinks, and it’s the most relaxed Taeyong has been in such a long time. They pick out pieces not only for themselves, but for each other as well. At one point, they play a game of who can come up with the most ridiculous outfit, and they both end up laughing so hard at the end results that the other shoppers turn to glare at them. The thing is, Taeyong can’t bring himself to _care_ , too caught up in how light and happy he feels.

It’s golden hour by the time they reach the plant shop, and, just like when they were in the café, Johnny doesn’t stop taking pictures the entire time Taeyong is poking around. He has Taeyong model for him, too, in the afternoon light, despite Taeyong’s protests that he’s not fit for something like that. Johnny counters each of Taeyong’s concerns with praise and instruction, and soon, Taeyong doesn’t even realize that Johnny’s still taking his pictures as he browses. 

Taeyong stops in front of a succulent, whose stems point straight towards the sky, considering. Johnny stops by his side, says, “You should get it. I don’t think you have anything like that yet. Plus, it should be pretty easy to take care of.”

Taeyong hums in response, still thinking.

“It reminds me of you, y’know.” Taeyong turns to look at Johnny in question. Johnny doesn’t break eye contact as he explains, “You’re always reaching for the stars, too.”

Taeyong flushes and turns away, unsure of what to say. He picks out the healthiest looking one, though—figures out that the species is called stuckyi, while he’s at it—and Johnny whoops in triumph.

“I want visiting rights,” Johnny declares when they’re back near campus, in Taeyong’s apartment, trying to find a good spot for it among the other plants. Johnny’s claimed parental rights to the stuckyi, since he helped pick it out. He didn’t have to accompany Taeyong back to his apartment, but he insisted on seeing both Taeyong and their child back to safety.

Taeyong grins, unaware of what it means when his heart soars, “Anything for you.”

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

It’s the little things that Taeyong can’t help but notice.

Overanalyzing his interactions with others is a facet of his social anxiety, Taeyong knows. But it’s different with Johnny because while this usually results in a pit at the bottom of Taeyong’s stomach, heavy and uneasy, thinking about Johnny makes him feel _good_. Comfortable. Safe.

Falling in love with Johnny is woven into the fabric of the absolute mundaneness of existing, so perhaps it makes perfect sense that Taeyong realizes when he’s having a minor meltdown, something so ordinary for him, for university students in general.

The “something” that is ordinary looks like this: there’s a steady drumbeat at the back of Taeyong’s mind, incessant and maddening, that sounds a lot like _failure. failure. failure._ There’s a heavy weight that sits in Taeyong’s chest as well, that feels a lot like _you’ll never be good enough_.

It’s a shitty day.

He had an early morning meeting with the professor supervising his final project for his music production seminar. It’s supposed to be an, at minimum, EP-length collection of beats. There are no guidelines aside from that, in an effort to promote the seniors’ creativity and to see whether they might be able to _make it_ in the music industry.

As Taeyong plays the beats that he has so far, some with guide vocals and some without, and watches his professor’s reaction, he thinks he’s doomed.

His professor’s lips pull further and further into a frown as Taeyong’s work fills the static air. The creases between his professor’s eyebrows get deeper and deeper, and Taeyong doesn’t even realize when he brings his thumb up by his lips and starts gnawing.

“Taeyong,” his professor sighs when his tracks finish playing, “it’s not that these aren’t good, but…. They’re generic, for lack of a better word. Your previous productions have had so much ingenuity and innovation that these seem a little lackluster to me. I know you can do better.”

The only thing Taeyong can do is nod and thank his professor for the feedback before hightailing it out of the meeting to go to his next class, where his feelings of inadequacy only grow.

Contemporary dance is usually one of Taeyong’s favorite classes. It’s a relatively new style for him and he _loves_ that, loves being challenged and learning new ways to express himself with only his body. They’re choreographing to an orchestral piece, and he normally melts into the music, gets lost in the passionate, desperate crescendo of violins and the foreboding, frenzied staccato of the piano, but it’s just _not clicking_ today.

He’s so stuck on his music production professor’s comments that he’s distracted—missing beats, getting entire steps wrong, botching other people’s blocking, the whole nine yards—and can’t even do his own fucking choreography correctly. It gets so bad that Ten, who had been shooting him concerned glances with increasing frequency as their class progressed, pulled him aside during a water break and asked what was wrong. Taeyong doesn’t get to explain much (not that he particularly wanted to, anyways) before their professor is calling them back to the floor.

Ten can’t corner him when class is dismissed either because Taeyong has a discussion section immediately after. Ten _does_ text the group chat, though, (the smaller one, the one with just Taeyong and Yuta and Ten) telling Taeyong that they are definitely talking about it later and that he loves him. The love is appreciated, but the insistence that Taeyong actually _talks_ about his _feelings_? Not so much. Yuta texts him privately afterwards, too, wondering what’s happened. 

Taeyong loves the both of them, he really does. Ten is explosive and assertive in his care, while Yuta, despite the mischief and sharpness of his banter, is sensitive and sweet. The thing that they have in common? Their unremitting devotion. Of course Taeyong appreciates it, for they never let him forget how much they _care_. Taeyong knows he’s the same when it comes to the two of them, but there are so many thoughts occupying his brain space right now and it’s overwhelming and the energy he has towards reassuring them or explaining himself is _negative_. The most he can do is tell them both that he’ll be okay, that they’ll talk about it later, he promises, before shutting his phone off completely to get away from it all.

His participation in his discussion section is minimal, and his focus during his following lecture is absolutely shot. He _wants_ to learn about the development of the music and entertainment complex during Japan-occupied Korea, but his mind is too focused on the fact that there’s so much to do and so little time and how, when he looks at everyone around him, they’re all excelling and enraptured with what they’re doing. He wonders why he can’t be the same.

Thank god his lecture finishes early. He feels so horrible that the only thing he wants to do is crawl under his covers, so that’s what he does. He makes a beeline for his apartment after they’re dismissed and immediately switches into pajamas. He doesn’t bother turning his phone back on, and lets the disappointment in himself send him to sleep, a familiar lullaby.

Taeyong doesn’t remember that this was a day he was supposed to go to Starbucks. He doesn’t remember that he was supposed to meet Johnny, until loud knocks wake him from his pity party.

When he opens the door, Johnny sags in relief. He outpours a stream of consciousness about how worried he was when Taeyong didn’t reply to him throughout the day, when Taeyong didn’t show up to Starbucks (and Johnny had even asked the baristas if Taeyong stopped by and left), when neither Yuta nor Ten had heard from him in the past few hours either.

Taeyong’s heart swells at the concern, deflates tenfold soon after for the worry he’s caused. There’s a ringing in his ears when he thinks about how childish and selfish and _stupid_ he’s been acting, and then that’s yet another thing that Taeyong can’t do _right_.

After a moment of Taeyong’s unresponsiveness, Johnny lets himself in by guiding Taeyong’s hand away from his teeth and body towards the couch.

When Johnny asks him what’s wrong, Taeyong takes one look at the resoluteness etched into every feature of Johnny’s expression and tells him.

It was a shitty day.

All the fight has been drained out of Taeyong, and he also knows how Johnny is. Johnny is a force to be reckoned with. In the grand scheme of things, Taeyong hasn’t _truly_ known him for very long, but it’s enough to realize that both the Seo Youngho of fifth grade and the Johnny Suh who is about to graduate from university share the same unwavering determination in the art of getting what they want. In fifth grade, this manifested in not only befriending everyone, but being one of the smartest people in their class as well. Now, this means that Johnny will do everything in his power to get Taeyong to _talk to him_ , and Taeyong’s too tired to do anything else but acquiesce.

Johnny listens to him speak without the soft pats and soothing murmurs Yuta would’ve likely peppered throughout Taeyong’s recount of his day, or Ten’s indignant curses, but Taeyong can tell he’s listening all the same. Taeyong can’t bring himself to look anywhere other than his hands, but he can feel Johnny’s gaze on him like a heavy weight. Instead of suffocating, he finds it comforting.

The first thing Johnny says after Taeyong’s finished speaking is this: “Your brain is fucking _incredible_ , do you know that? Do you understand how impressive it is, to have so much creativity that you’re double majoring in two different types of art and _killing it_? And, not only that, but you could’ve definitely done something with painting, too, so you had to _actively decide_ not to pursue a _third_ form of art to formally study. Do you realize how _insane_ that is?”

Taeyong flushes, cherry red.

Johnny has a lot of choice words to say about Taeyong’s professor, a lot of declarations about the quality of Taeyong’s work from what Taeyong has allowed him to hear so far, a lot of reassurances that Taeyong still has time, that Taeyong was having an off day, that off days aren’t indicative of how capable a person is, and Taeyong feels the knot in his chest start to loosen and untangle.

Taeyong wonders why it’s so _easy_ for Johnny to settle his heart, even if only a little bit.

Taeyong thinks of all the little things—like Johnny filling in the spaces of conversations when Taeyong’s brain grinds to halt, like Johnny sending Taeyong cute animal videos because he thinks of Taeyong whenever he sees them, like Johnny checking in when he hasn’t heard from Taeyong in a while to make sure he’s okay—and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick, doesn’t feel the need to run and hide.

It’s not only that Johnny takes care of him, is attentive to him, though he certainly does. He treats Taeyong like an equal. He’s allowed Taeyong to see and help him with the most vulnerable parts of himself—like when Johnny was so overwhelmed with his thesis that he became paralyzed and Taeyong had commandeered his outline and created an action plan; like when Johnny was homesick during his mother’s birthday and Taeyong had made him Chicago dogs and deep dish pizza while Johnny FaceTimed his mom; like when Johnny wasn’t sure how he could even compare to the other pre-laws and Taeyong stopped at nothing until he made his point clear, that Johnny was the best of the best.

He _trusts_ Taeyong, so wholeheartedly, and Taeyong isn’t quite sure what he’s done to deserve it. But Taeyong trusts Johnny like that, too.

 _I think I might be falling in love with you_ , Taeyong thinks to himself in wonder.

If Ten is the brightness in Taeyong’s life—the flames of passion, of living and being alive—and Yuta is the gentle calm—the serenity of introspection, of knowing and being known—then Johnny is the steady heartbeat. Johnny is the simultaneous peace and spontaneity of the day-to-day, the security of a routine, already established, and the excitement of never knowing whether that routine might be broken, flipped upside down on its head and turned into something _better_.

They are his sun, his moon, and his stars. And, well, Taeyong has always had a special love for the stars.

That is, of course, until he starts crying them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly kind of hesitant to call this fic “angst with a happy ending” bc most of the “angsty” stuff only really happens in the next two chapters, but i figure the summary was Cause for Concern, so i updated the tags a;lskdjf
> 
> comments & kudos are always appreciated ^.^ ♡
> 
>   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/maddogmp3) || [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/maddogmp3)


	3. forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw panic attack : there’s a description of a panic attack at the beginning of the second section starting at “There’s a pressure building up in his chest…” so start reading again at “He’s exhausted” to avoid it! take care of yourselves!!

The first time it happens, it’s a little over three months into the semester, a few weeks before finals season starts.

It happens in such a mundane circumstance, because it is only natural that it does.

Taeyong both loves Johnny and doesn’t at the same time. He loves Johnny, he knows this, because he loves his friends and would do damn near anything to keep them, to see them happy. There is quite frankly nothing that Taeyong values more than his platonic, familial loves. But there are other ways to love, and in this kind (the heart-racing kind, the keeps-you-up-at-night, romantic kind), Taeyong doesn’t think he loves Johnny. At least not yet.

Compartmentalizing has always been a strength of his. _We’re both too busy_ , he tells himself. _Nothing’s gonna happen anyways. Johnny would never feel the same. He’s just kind, stop reading into things._ Taeyong doesn’t ever really forget, but he can ignore the subtle thrum that reaches out to Johnny like sunflowers yearn for the sun, can push it back into the dark corners of his mind.

Except, of course, when it bursts forward. It’s like blowing bubbles with gum: you try so hard to control your breath, to make sure you’re not too forceful and the air stays contained, but the gum only gets thinner and thinner as it expands and nine times out of ten, it pops before you even realize what’s going on.

For example, when Taeyong’s little baby cousin, high school senior Mark Lee, comes to campus for an info session and a tour. He hung out with Taeyong afterwards, and Johnny, Yuta, Ten, and Jaehyun had invited themselves over as well. Mark had already met Yuta and Ten, but it took barely 15 minutes for Mark to endear himself to Johnny and Jaehyun, and under an hour for him to start calling Johnny the dad to Taeyong’s mom. They both brushed it off as a silly comment from a cute kid, but Mark’s right, isn’t he? They fill in each other’s gaps, and when Taeyong thinks about it, he and Johnny do make a really good team.

For example, when the five of them—Taeyong, Johnny, Yuta, Ten, and Jaehyun—were having a chill night. It was just them, a few beers and hard ciders and glasses of wine, and some takeout. Ten had declared them all in desperate need of a night to relax, and what Ten wants, Ten gets. They were all a bit tipsy and someone, probably also Ten, had the brilliant idea of playing paranoia but with the addition of back hugging whoever your pick was.

Ten whispered a question to Johnny, who considered for a brief moment before getting up and holding Taeyong’s back flush against his chest. Johnny explained, “When I go shopping with him, I sometimes think this way,” and the only thing that Taeyong could think about was that it just felt great. Johnny hugging him felt great. And also he could feel Johnny’s abs, but that was besides the point.

For example, the last time Taeyong had a session with his therapist. There are some days when you wake up, and you just know that it’s going to be _good_. Taeyong had woken up that day to the sunlight streaming into his window, feeling fully rested and content.

He’d turned in the last of his midterm projects at 11:59pm on the dot, did his nighttime routine, and immediately passed the fuck out. He slept for a full eight hours, worked on his music composition project in the morning, danced his heart out with Ten in their contemporary dance class, didn’t need to go to discussion section because it was canceled, and got let out early from his final lecture class.

He arrived at Starbucks early, only to find Johnny already there, sitting at a table and waving Taeyong over. Johnny’s class had let out early as well, and his other class was also canceled, so they sat in Starbucks talking about everything and nothing until Taeyong needed to go back to his apartment for his therapy appointment over Skype.

He’s beaming when he talks that day, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by his therapist. She says she’s proud of him for doing so well recently, for the added light his new friends have seemed to bring into his life. She tells him she hopes he and Johnny stay friends for a long time, because Taeyong never seems to stop smiling when he talks about Johnny. There’s a knowing glint in her eye that Taeyong can see even through the shitty resolution of the video call. He flushes, but he can’t bring himself to protest because she’s right.

For example, the first time Taeyong cries stars.

It’s a mundane thing.

Taeyong, Yuta, and Ten are having an art session. They do this as often as they can, either in one of their apartments or in an art studio on campus. They’re in an art studio this time, the sounds of their combined playlist filling the air.

Sometimes they’ll have a constant stream of chatter between the three of them as they create. Sometimes they’ll have nothing at all but the music playing from Taeyong’s portable speakers. Sometimes they’ll all be working in the same medium. Sometimes Ten will have his iPad, while Yuta works with watercolors, and Taeyong lays out an assortment of fabric pens and his (and his friends’) victim clothing items and accessories.

Always, they’ll share what they’ve done at the end of the session and it’s like seeing a small piece of someone’s soul. That's what people do when they create without restrictions, isn’t it? With total freedom comes the depths of your mind poured onto screen or paper or canvas.

It’s a mundane thing.

Johnny visits them one day when they’re having an art session, in between his classes. He doesn’t have too much time to stick around, but when they have sessions like these, they’ve been known to get so absorbed in their work that they forget to eat. Jaehyun was busy, so Johnny had offered to drop off some food and other snacks, and the three had gladly accepted.

“I wasn’t sure what you guys wanted,” Johnny says when he arrives. They cut the music so they can actually hear him, after seeing his lips move but hearing nothing distinct come from his mouth. He’s got a tray of Starbucks drinks in one hand, and two bags full of snacks in the other.

Yuta and Ten both make noises of affirmation, noises that mean “it’s fine; we’re just glad you got us stuff,” and Taeyong is about to do the same, but. But.

When he looks at the drinks in Johnny’s hand and when they dump the contents of the bags onto an empty table, every single thing is one of Taeyong’s favorites. Johnny’s gotten him a pink drink and sweet potato cubes and hallabong jellies and canelés and the kimbap he always keeps stocked in his fridge and it’s such a small, stupid thing, but suddenly Taeyong’s heart is dangerously close to expanding right out of his chest.

It’s so _stupid_ , and he’s not even sure if Johnny consciously picked out all of his favorites, but if it wasn’t even conscious, if his preferences are so ingrained into Johnny’s memory that he can pick them without so much as a thought… isn’t that _better_? More intimate?

Taeyong separates out all of the food he _knows_ belongs to him into a pile with shaky hands. Johnny waves goodbye, leaving almost as quickly as he came, to a chorus of “thank you”s from Yuta and Ten.

Taeyong? Taeyong’s eyes are burning and his throat is tight and he feels like he could cry.

“Hey, TY, can you turn the music b- Taeyong? Are you okay?”

He tries to take a steadying breath, then another, then a third.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. Despite the way he says the words steadily, the thickness of his voice betrays him.

“Yongie, what’s wrong?”

He closes his eyes in an attempt to stop the burning. As soon as he does, a tinkling sound fills the air. It’s light, beautiful. It sounds like wind chimes.

He rubs at his eyes and he doesn’t feel anything wet, but when he opens them again and stares at his hands, it looks like his fingers are covered in glitter. In stars.

The tinkling sound continues and Taeyong sees drops of starlight scatter onto his dark jeans.

He looks up, bewildered. Ten seems just as confused as he feels, moves so that he’s face-to-face with Taeyong, brushes his thumb across the high plane of Taeyong’s cheekbone, right under his eyes, and comes away with stars.

Yuta’s eyes are wide in disbelief. He sounds incredulous but knowing when he murmurs, “Oh no. Oh god this isn’t happening. This can’t be real.”

Taeyong’s heart races at the worry in Yuta’s voice. Ten turns to look at him. “Do you know what this is?”

Yuta nods.

“Star tear disease.”

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Here’s what Yuta tells them:

  * It is a disease of unrequited love.
  * He thought it was only a literary trope at first, nothing more. He’d never heard of anyone actually _getting it_ until Taeyong.
  * Star tear disease is Hanahaki’s lesser known and slightly less tragic cousin. Slightly less tragic because instead of plants puncturing your lungs, you simply cry star tears. Slightly less tragic because instead of _dying_ , you become color blind.
  * In rare cases, you may also suffer from memory loss. Although, Yuta’s not quite sure exactly what that means.



He doesn’t know anything else.

Perhaps Taeyong should be grateful that Yuta even knows anything at all, but it’s hard to feel anything through the mounting _panic_.

There’s a pressure building up in his chest, painful and suffocating. He tries to take breaths, but his throat is tight and his nose seems blocked and it’s _not working_ , so he tries again, tries harder, but his breathing is only getting more and more shallow, on the verge of hyperventilation.

“-yong! _Taeyong_!”

He can barely hear who’s calling for him. He’s getting dizzy and his heart is pounding, but it doesn’t feel like there’s any oxygen getting _anywhere_ at all. He _can’t breathe_ and it’s only making everything _worse_.

“Taeyong! Follow our counts, okay?”

He tries again, listening for the sounds of their voices. His attention slips a few times and he doesn’t follow the counts, which makes him more afraid, more anxious, but they never stop talking, never stop counting and calling for him, and it’s enough to anchor him back into his body, back into reality, even if only in short spurts at first.

He lets the voices of Yuta and Ten ground him. He inhales three counts, exhales another three, and his heart gradually slows its jackrabbit’s pace. The haze clears and his surroundings come back into focus.

He’s exhausted.

He’s still trembling a little, trembling and cold from where sweat cools on his skin.

“Are you okay to be touched right now?” Yuta asks softly.

Taeyong nods and Yuta opens his arms wide in another question. Taeyong nods again, smiling weakly as Yuta beams and collects Taeyong in his arms. Taeyong slumps against him.

Ten comes back from where he was rummaging through his gym bag with a clean towel. He gently pats the sweat away from Taeyong’s temples, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. He’s the most gentle under Taeyong’s eyes, towel soaking up sweat and tears— _actual_ tears this time, not stars.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” Ten says. His voice is as gentle as his touch. “We’re gonna be right here to help you. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Even if I go colorblind?”

“Even then.” Ten says it with such confidence that Taeyong almost believes him. “You can be like Anthony Ryan!”

“Who?” Yuta asks from behind Taeyong. He can feel the way Yuta’s chest rises and falls. It’s comforting, in a way, another tether to reality.

“He’s this colorblind fashion designer from Project Runway season nine,” Ten explains. His smile grows wider as he gets more excited, talking about something he loves. Seeing Ten like his is comforting, too, reassuring because despite the fact that his entire world has just shifted, there are still some things that stay the same.

“He still matched colors and patterns better than most of the other designers and- never mind. The point is, there are millions of people who are colorblind and live perfectly. It’s scary because it’s different, but colorblindness, in and of itself, isn’t a big deal, okay? We’re not even sure if you’ll get it. And if you do, you’ll have us and we’ll figure it out together. You’ll be fine, Taeyong, I promise.”

“But we don’t know what’s gonna happen,” Taeyong whispers. “What if I forget? What if I forget you two?”

“You will _always_ have us,” Ten insists fiercely.

Yuta nods. “Even if you forget us, there’s no way in hell we’d forget you. We’re with you, Taeyong, through everything. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Taeyong doesn’t protest again. He can hear the finality in their voices, even though he’s still not sure if he believes them.

Ten moves around the studio like a whirlwind, cleaning up the mess that they’ve made. Taeyong moves to try to help him, but Yuta locks him back against his chest with an iron grip.

Ten packs away Taeyong’s fabric pens in the exact way that Taeyong likes, Yuta runs his fingers through Taeyong’s hair, and Taeyong has the brief, fleeting thought that maybe everything really will be okay after all.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Like with most of his problems, Taeyong tries to pretend that this one doesn’t exist.

 _This is fine_ , Taeyong thinks to himself. _I can make this productive. I have to make this work. Just like every other time I’ve been sad, I can make something out of this._

So he does.

The sound that accompanies the tears are different every time. The colors are different, too. 

These are facts that Taeyong has learned over the short span of a few days. What is it that they always say? One’s chance, two’s a coincidence, and three’s a pattern? What about a whole journal full?

Granted, the journal isn’t very big, but it’s enough for him to work out a few particularities of the disease. Or, at the very least, the way the disease affects _him_.

After a few times, he’d noticed that the tears were actually colored. He’d been too blinded by their brightness, at first, to notice the stars’ subtle hues. It was also difficult to tell initially because the stars were white. White, for brightness, purity, fulfillment. It was fitting for white to be the first color that fell, because it was brightness that Taeyong first associated with Johnny when he knew him as Seo Youngho. It was purity and fulfillment that formed the basis for their friendship, the innocent admiration of children towards each other, finally fulfilled as adults.

White, also, for death. Taeyong can’t quite explain it, but this meaning, too, is fitting. Death of his life as he once knew it? Death of hope, perhaps? Because he’s certain that Johnny doesn’t feel the same way?

The first phase of white stars made it difficult for Taeyong to notice the shift in his eye color and in the way he saw the world. He didn’t notice his irises—already a deep, warm brown to begin with—getting darker with the loss of white. It’s winter. Everything is darker, colder in the winter. The nights come earlier and Taeyong’s been so busy he barely sees the daylight anyways. He notices during the next phase, when the stars are darker, black but still glittering.

Black for the color of heaven, although in Western culture ( _in Johnny’s culture_ , Taeyong thinks) it stands for death. This phase lasts much longer than the first, and only then does Taeyong notice his eyes lightening from chocolate to hazel with the loss of the pigment. He notices the darker colors of the world fading out, too. Nights that were once pitch black and soothing in the anonymity they offered became a muted grey.

Green comes next, for health, prosperity, harmony. His plants no longer look the same and his eyes shift from hazel to a warm amber color, red but not quite. And it is red that follows, for good fortune and joy. He doesn’t paint anymore.

Taeyong isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to feel like he’s losing whatever positive things the colors symbolize, or whether his interactions with Johnny at the time color the stars. Because if he looks back on whatever they’ve done, however Johnny has acted to make Taeyong remember exactly how in love with Johnny he really is, he can probably find something that fits. Any way that Taeyong thinks about it sounds a little morbid, but the fact that his love is not returned doesn’t _feel_ like some terrible, terrible thing, at least not anymore.

He’s come to accept it, his circumstances, wholeheartedly and without protest. He thinks it’s better like this because he has an answer and he didn’t even need to embarrass himself to get it. It’s almost calming, like most things with Johnny are, that he didn’t have to trouble Johnny with the knowledge of his feelings or cause Johnny any strife over not being able to return them. What Johnny doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Like his journal, the test tube rack that Taeyong usually uses to display singular flowers and propagate new plants isn’t very big either.

Instead of greenery, the test tubes are filled with stars. After the second time he cried, Taeyong had the slightly masochistic idea to collect his tears. The stars were quite beautiful on their own, divorced from any meaning. There is something achingly beautiful, too, about unrequited love, about the heartbreak and the hurt that love can bring and the fact that love is not all saccharine sweetness. It’s cliché, sure, but that’s why there are so many songs written about it, no? And Taeyong is a songwriter, after all.

The second time he cries is also when Taeyong has the, again, slightly masochistic idea to record the tinkling sound of wind chimes that accompanies his star tears.

It’s the first time anything of his outside the studio is full of song-related material. For instance, he doesn’t jot lyrics down in his notes app or in a journal somewhere. He always thinks about them for a few weeks, and only begins to write when he feels as if he has a good enough grasp of the song, of what he wants to say. That usually doesn’t even happen at all, so he writes everything the day before recording, because, well, he doesn’t have any other choice by that point.

Now, though, his voice memos are full of stars.

Despite the fact that he’s almost finished with his final assignment for his music production seminar he scraps his work.

Well, not completely.

There are some beats that he can use, some beats that fit perhaps too well with the music of the stars.

The theme of his album shifts significantly. Where his previous lyrics were about the panopticon of society—omnipresent, always unforgivingly critical—and the ironies of capitalism, his songs now are much more personal. They’re more introspective, more emotional. His supervising professor compliments him on taking topics so overdone as love and longing and making them new and exciting with interesting blends of source sounds and melodies. Taeyong doesn’t tell his professor where, exactly, he sources from.

Another result of his star tears: Taeyong learns a little bit about longing.

The pain of his circumstance does not come from its unrequited nature. He doesn’t care that Johnny doesn’t love him back, because he wouldn’t expect someone like Johnny to love someone like him. Taeyong doesn’t expect anyone to, for that matter.

The pain of his circumstance comes from this: Taeyong is a creative. He can’t stop his mind from filling with fantasies and idyllic scenes, but he knows—oh, how he _knows_ —that these perfect imaginings are not his to have. He can’t stop how he yearns for them anyway.

What hurts most is the longing.

It is a terrible thing, longing. Terrible in the way it consumes you whole, terrible in the way it follows you like a shadow, terrible in the way it sinks into your skin, into your bones.

It draws you in with love before it poisons your blood, this terrible, terrible longing.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Johnny notices.

It’s not that he notices the disease, exactly, because Taeyong’s pretty sure that Johnny doesn’t even know what it is. The tears only come after the fact, after Taeyong and Johnny are done hanging out or FaceTiming or texting, after Johnny’s done something particularly endearing and Taeyong falls a little bit harder.

Johnny doesn’t notice Taeyong acting weirdly either, because Taeyong’s trying his damndest to act like everything’s normal, like he’s not in love and suffering because of it. He usually can’t act for shit, but he’s _desperate_. Even Yuta and Ten had told him he was doing a good job.

What Johnny _does_ notice is the way that Taeyong’s eyes have been changing colors.

“You really like wearing colored contacts recently, don’t you?” he asks one day. They’re in a café, a 20 minute metro ride away from campus, doing work. It’s busy right now, during the lunchtime rush. Taeyong loves it, loves the chatter of conversations and whirring of machines that fill the empty air around them, loves knowing that he is not alone but has his own privacy in the crowd that is too busy to pay him any mind. Except for Johnny.

“Huh?” Taeyong responds intelligently.

Johnny chuckles, “I just mean that your eyes haven’t been their usual color, or even the same color, in like two weeks.”

“You noticed that?”

“Of course,” Johnny says with exaggerated indignation, “who do you take me for? Eyes are the window to the soul, y’know. I always notice them first when I look at someone, you especially.”

“What? Why me?”

“Really?” And now Johnny actually sounds confused. “You have, like, the prettiest eyes _ever_ , Yong. Don’t you know? They’re so big and round and sparkly. Like a kitten’s.”

Taeyong splutters, “You don’t mean that.”

“‘Course I do. If I can’t shower my friends with compliments and embarrass them at the same time, then how could I possibly go on living?”

 _Friends_. It hurts more than Taeyong is willing to admit.

Johnny’s only half joking. Taeyong knows, very well, how much praise Johnny loves to give and how much attention Johnny pays to the people around him. Which is why Taeyong can’t lie. Johnny would know if he flat out lied.

“It’s… it’s not colored contacts.”

“Then how do your eyes…?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Taeyong sighs.

“I’ve got time.”

Taeyong smiles, in spite of it all. He knew Johnny would say that. He steels himself. In the privacy of a crowded café, he tells Johnny about the star tears and what they mean and how they affect him, and when Johnny doesn’t believe him, he pulls out the capped test tube from its protective pouch in his backpack, already half-full of golden stars, lets the twinkling sound of the tears flow through the airpod that Taeyong shoves unceremoniously into Johnny’s ear, and waits for Johnny to speak again.

“Do you know who it is?” he eventually asks.

Taeyong smiles again, this time, a self-sardonic little thing.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No,” Taeyong answers immediately.

Johnny’s lips twist into a frown. “Don’t trust me?”

“I- it’s not that, Johnny, of course I trust you.”

He feels Johnny’s hands wrap around his wrist. He looks down to see that his hand is raised, almost at his mouth, his nervous tick.

“Then why won’t you tell me? Do I know them?”

Johnny hasn’t let go, but Taeyong tugs his wrist out of Johnny’s grasp. He doesn’t want Johnny to feel the pulse at his wrist quickening. He can feel stress mounting, too, and he tries to focus on the chatter in the café to ground himself. He digs his nails into his palms, then cools the sting by wrapping his hands around his iced coffee. He’s grateful for the sensation of water coating his palms, slipping between where his skin meets the plastic. He can’t float away, get trapped in his own mind. Not here, not now, not with Johnny watching.

“Yeah,” Taeyong manages, “yeah, you know them.” _You know them_ very _personally_ , Taeyong doesn’t say. “I won’t let whatever’s happening to me affect the way you perceive them. I _know you_ , Johnny. You’re protective as hell, and I appreciate it, really, but I don’t need you to go on a rampage or to worry about me. Honest.”

Johnny’s frown deepens.

“Fine,” he relents. “I won’t push. But is there anything I can do to help? Y’know, other than beat whoever doesn’t love you back senseless?”

Taeyong laughs, surprised at the image that pops into his mind of Johnny beating himself up. Or two Johnnys throwing punches and kicks at each other. He hates how watery his laugh sounds. He hates how much he wants to tell Johnny, wants to have Johnny comfort him, like he always does, and tell Taeyong that everything will be okay. He hates how much he hurts.

“No,” Taeyong answers quietly, “no, there’s nothing you can do to help.” _You can fall in love with me_ , Taeyong thinks to himself, _but you won’t_. “There’s something else, though.”

Johnny looks at him in question. His eyes burn with something—encouragement, maybe? And sympathy? Pity? It makes Taeyong’s stomach churn. He can’t bear to meet Johnny’s eyes, so he drops his gaze down towards his hands.

He watches the way Johnny loosens his fingers from around his coffee cup and gathers his hands in his palms. Johnny smooths his thumbs over the backs of Taeyong’s hands, in a gesture that is meant to be comforting. And it is, Taeyong supposes. But his skin burns with it.

“Yuta said I might start forgetting,” Taeyong says around the lump in his throat. “We don’t really know what that means, since nobody knows much about this disease. Not like they know about Hanahaki. We’re not even sure it’ll happen, but I just wanted to let you know in case you say something and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Johnny’s grip on Taeyong’s hands tighten. He’s silent for a few heartbeats, though Taeyong’s heart is beating at anything but a normal pace right now, then, “You won’t forget _me_?”

It’s the most uncertain Taeyong has ever heard Johnny’s voice. He snaps his head up to meet Johnny’s eyes again, but he finds that now it’s Johnny who’s looking at his (their) hands.

“I’ll never forget you,” Taeyong squeezes Johnny’s hands in return. “Promise,” he lies through his teeth.

“How can you be so sure?”

Taeyong hates how small Johnny’s voice sounds, how scared he seems, how it’s all Taeyong’s fault.

Taeyong hates lying. He hates lying to Johnny, like he has been doing for the past several days, and a twisted part of him hates that his desperation to shield Johnny from his own emotions is making him such a good liar that Johnny can’t see through him anymore. Taeyong thinks he can offer Johnny a little bit of truth.

“Don’t you know? The best parts of me are the parts that I learned from you.”

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

They don’t see each other very often after that.

It’s almost finals. Most of Taeyong’s fall semester finals projects and assignments are due before reading week because most of them will take a while to grade. He’s been holed up in his room, the library, the one café that’s a walking distance from where he lives, cranking out pages and pages of writing on the history of the entertainment complex and music theory. 

When he’s done with those essays, he has to cram rehearsal after rehearsal for the fall semester dance showcase and finalize his music production project, due the very last day of finals week. And the only reason why that’s due so late is because the professors already have a pretty good idea of what most of the students’ tracks sound like and it won’t take as long for them to give their feedback. At least his big projects are kind of spaced out. Small mercies.

Taeyong flits between the practice rooms and his studio. He spends the next two weeks up to his ears in _work_ , and it’s all he can think about. He can barely remember to eat, to breathe, let alone contact anyone who isn’t part of either project. He knows that he needs to let both his body and his brain rest in order for him to absorb all the information that he needs to, but he can’t help but push himself. It doesn’t matter if he forgets where he’s sourced some of the sounds from his songs or why exactly he decided to include certain steps in his choreography. It takes only a few moments for him to re-acclimatize himself before he starts working again. It’s so much less time wasted than if he slept.

He figures it’s okay because Yuta and Ten have probably been telling everyone they know that Taeyong decidedly _isn’t dead_. Taeyong’s always sort of approached finals season in this way. It’s the overwhelming need to be _perfect_ , the anxiety of disappointment, the imposter syndrome that mocks him and makes him wonder how the hell he hasn’t been found out yet and fearful for when he’ll inevitably crash. It’s a lot of things, and his therapist has had words to say to him about it, but it’s one of his last terms in his last year and he’s so fucking close to freedom, he just has to suck it up and take it.

Finals season looks something like this:

He’s sprawled out in studio 00, his favorite dance practice room, left arm thrown over his closed eyes and trying to catch his breath. He’s been practicing for almost two hours already. The last time he ate was… well. He can’t really remember, but he doesn’t feel hungry or lightheaded, so he figures it isn’t important and that he can keep going.

Suddenly, he feels a shock of cold touch his arm. He flings his arm off of his eyes and jolts up, letting out an inhuman screech, as his heart pounds and his eyes blink the world back into focus.

He’s still sitting down, so the first thing at kind of eye level that he sees is the _venti_ sized Starbucks cup with “pink drink” written across the top and beams. His favorite drink.

His eyes go up, up, up, from the hand gripping the drink to the toned arm to the broad chest and then he’s staring at the kindest face he has ever seen. He sees warm eyes that are gentle and fond, full lips curled into a teasing grin, floppy hair that looks soft to touch, and feels his heartbeat calm a little. That’s not the face of someone who would ever hurt him.

But, here’s the thing: Taeyong doesn’t remember.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “do I know you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i am a recently graduated engineering student but physics was my worst subject so please just take the color subtraction with a grain of salt a;sldkjf it’s more like pigments than actual color?? hhHHHHH i haven’t taken a physics class since first year pls forgive me :S and all the color symbolism stuff comes from googling (esp chinese wuxing aka five element/color theory and the korean derivation called obangsaek), so go easy on me if i’m wildly wrong
> 
> also: a BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO TAEYONG!! things being cleared up a week before his birthday?? *chefs kiss* everybody repeat after me (and johnny): TAEYONG BEST BOY!!! i love him so much and he’s taught me so much as well, and i hope he’s been resting well and has/had the most amazing day today uwu!! this update is nowhere near as eloquent and emotional as the letter he wrote for us i'm really ;A; TAEYONG WE LOVE YOU
> 
> i’m taking grad school entrance exams very soon, so the final chapter won’t be up for 3-4 weeks, but in the meantime, comments & kudos are always appreciated ^.^ ♡
> 
>   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/maddogmp3) || [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/maddogmp3)


	4. loving

The last two weeks have been positively _brutal_. Johnny doesn’t remember the last time he saw his own _roommates_ for more than a few moments in passing every day, much less his non-pre-law peers.

He’s spent almost every waking minute in the law school, in various empty classrooms and conference rooms, or in the law library, books piled high next to him. He’s not sure how good spending that much time around other future and wannabe lawyers is good for his sanity. He misses his friends—his _actual_ friends, like Taeyong and Jaehyun and Yuta and Ten, not the classmates who call each other friends out of politeness and networking—but he hasn’t seen them in person in ages.

He’s got what feels like a billion pages of papers to write, a fucking thesis to finish, and he also doesn’t remember the last time he got more than five consecutive hours of sleep. But it’s one of his last terms in his last year and if he can’t even do this, then how the fuck is he going to survive law school and then _work_ the first couple of years? So he grits his teeth, shoves down the part of him that wants to say “fuck it” and call his friends up for a night out, and pushes through it.

When Johnny finally has a short break, when he’s submitted all but one of his papers and can breathe a small sigh of relief, the first thing he thinks of doing is treating himself with coffee—the _good_ kind, not the kind from bottles in vending machines or the watered down, dining services shit they serve in all the libraries.

Even though he’s spent the last two weeks on a constant caffeine high, there’s nothing that makes Johnny happier than truly _enjoying_ a cup of coffee. He knows exactly which café he wants to buy a horribly overpriced drink at, and it feels like even more of a treat that it’s a little bit of a trek away. It’ll be good to get some non-campus air, he thinks.

Because Johnny’s a good person with a horrible soft spot for his friends, he opens up their group chat and sends out a text:

_for anyone who finals hasn’t killed yet: do you want some coffee?  
i’m taking a break rn and can deliver_

His friends text back with alarming speed, but Johnny gets it. Any distraction feels like a good distraction right now.

**🐙**  
_i’m good thanks tho_

**_tenneth_ **  
_i just got myself coffee hhHHHH_

**_jaeD_ **  
_i wish you texted a few minutes earlier_  
_i’m literally about to walk into an exam rip_  
_turning my phone off now_

_oh shit good luck bro_

**_tenneth_**  
_you got this babe_ 😘

**🐙**  
_disgusting keep your flirting out of the gc thanks_  
_good luck jae!!_

All but one.

_what about yong? is he alive? does he want anything?_

**_tenneth_ **  
_ty hasn’t opened this chat in the past two weeks lmaoo_  
_he’s been swamped and wants to backread so he’s leaving the notifs up as a reminder_  
_he told me he’d be in dance studio 00 for like the whole day if you wanna surprise him_

_ohhh gotcha thanks tenneth_

**_tenneth_ **  
_i’ll kill you in your sleep_

Johnny laughs at Ten’s reaction to the nickname before he pockets his phone and heads on over to his favorite coffee shop. He doesn’t bother to respond—it’s not like Ten would actually do anything; Jaehyun would miss Johnny too much and Ten loves Jaehyun too much to do that to him. He thinks about what Ten said, though, and decides that if there’s anyone who deserves a nice little pick-me-up, it’s Taeyong.

A bell chimes as Johnny pushes the door open. The baristas smile at him from behind the counter and, instantly, he already feels better than he has in a while. The coffee here is only marginally more expensive, the beans are infinitely better, and the staff are much less bombarded with crazed, sleep-deprived college students. It’s nice.

He sits at a small table in the corner, scrolling through his social media accounts and nursing his iced red eye, and maybe it’s a lot of caffeine for a normal person, but Johnny thinks he deserves the extra coffee. A treat.

He still won’t be able to avoid the busy crowd at Starbucks, but at least it’ll be quick. He’s got Taeyong’s grande pink drink saved in his favorite orders already. He thinks about it for a few seconds, staring at the order page, before he thinks, _Taeyong best boy_ , changes the size to venti, and places the order.

When he gets back to campus, the line at Starbucks is terrible, as anticipated. Thankfully, he ordered long enough beforehand that his (Taeyong’s) drink is already waiting for him at the mobile order pickup counter. He ignores the way some people glare at him as he pops in and out, but it’s really not his fault that they didn’t have the foresight to predict the wait and order a good 15 minutes before getting to Starbucks like he did.

It’s fucking freezing, in the beginning of winter, but Johnny’s so used to carrying iced drinks in all sorts of weather that he barely feels it.

Other than that, it’s gorgeous outside, light and sunny, just the way Johnny prefers. It puts a small smile on his face, a smile that only gets bigger the closer he gets to the dance studios and imagines the way Taeyong will light up in happiness and do that adorable clapping thing he does in excitement when he sees what Johnny has for him.

It’s unusually quiet outside studio 00. The rooms are all (mostly) soundproof, but Taeyong pretty much always blasts his music so loudly that at least the bass can be heard through the walls.

Johnny opens the door carefully, just in case Ten was wrong and Taeyong isn’t actually inside.

He has to stifle a laugh when he enters the studio. The music is off and Taeyong is sprawled out spread-eagle on the floor, one arm over his eyes. It looks like he’s sleeping, but the rise and fall of his chest is too quick for that to be the case.

He makes his way softly towards where Taeyong is catching his breath. It’s kind of concerning that Taeyong, who is normally quite perceptive, neither hears nor feels Johnny’s footsteps on the studio floor, but at least he can _really_ surprise Taeyong because of it.

Predictably, Taeyong startles when Johnny presses the cold drink against the sweat-soaked, undoubtedly warm skin of Taeyong's left arm.

Johnny bursts out laughing at Taeyong’s screech. He quiets down a little, heart softening, when Taeyong beams at the pink drink in Johnny’s hand.

When their eyes meet, Johnny expects something along the lines of, “Wahhh you’re a lifesaver Johnny, thank you so much!”

What he gets is, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His heart stutters to a halt in his chest. _This can’t be happening_.

He tries, “It’s me? Johnny?”

Taeyong only looks at him in confusion.

He tries again, “From fifth grade? Seo Youngho? C’mon, Taeyong, you’re scaring me.”

“I- I’m really, really sorry, but I don’t remember? I don’t think I know anyone with either of those names? Are you sure?”

Taeyong’s face twists into that terrified, deer-in-headlights look he gets when his social anxiety starts to act up, and no matter how much Johnny doesn’t want to believe that Taeyong _doesn’t remember_ him, he doesn’t want to push Taeyong into panic either.

“Ah, um,” Johnny backtracks, “Ten sent me. I was headed this way and he wanted someone, anyone, to check up on you.”

Taeyong nods hesitantly, as if accepting Johnny’s statement. But they both know the other is lying.

Johnny places the drink next to Taeyong. “Enjoy the drink,” he mutters past the lump in his throat as he makes his way towards the door.

“I’m really sorry,” he hears Taeyong whisper quietly as he leaves.

He closes the door gently behind him, leans his back against it, closes his eyes.

Johnny feels his stomach sink to his feet.

 _He promised_ , Johnny thinks to himself. _He promised that he wouldn’t forget me._

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Johnny tries to forget about it, really he does.

Taeyong had texted him the next day, the first time in a while because of how busy they’ve both been, and apologized. His memories of Johnny were back, but the memory of Taeyong’s failure to remember stayed as well, and it made Taeyong heavy with guilt. It’s not that Taeyong _said_ he felt guilty—he wouldn’t deliberately worry someone or try so blatantly to gain sympathy like that—but Johnny knew.

Johnny had responded and told Taeyong that it was fine, that he shouldn’t feel bad, that it wasn’t his fault. He could say those things because they were true. It really wasn’t Taeyong’s fault that he’d become saddled with an unrequited love disease that made him forget his friends. It was the fault of whoever the imbecile was who didn’t love Taeyong back.

But Johnny couldn’t bring himself to say that it was fine because he didn’t hurt. That would’ve been a lie, and he never liked lying, especially to someone as _good_ as Taeyong.

It _did_ hurt, and Johnny didn’t understand why it was only he who Taeyong had forgotten.

Johnny tries not to think too much about it. He can’t exactly afford to, anyways, what with reading week coming up soon. He may be almost done with most of his essays, but he still has actual exams to study for.

Apparently he looks like shit, because during his weekly FaceTime with his parents, his mother takes one look at the severely pixelated video version of his face and declares, “We’re sending you a care package. Express shipping. It looks like you need it. Do your friends want anything from America?”

He tells his parents not to bother, _seriously_ , explains how they’re all so overworked right now that the only one he sees semi-regularly is Jaehyun because that’s his best friend and they’ve figured out how to still hang out during hell month, but when the care package arrives and he opens it up, he sees that his parents (like usual) haven’t paid him any mind.

It’s a testament to how much he gushes about his friends, then, to receive a care package filled with stuff tailored to each of them without Johnny having to explicitly say anything. Among the special brands of coffee beans he likes that don’t have chains in Korea, there are some vinyls for Jaehyun, new earrings for Yuta, art supplies for Ten, and a metric fuckton of American sweets for Taeyong.

Finals season means there are a lot less face-to-face interactions, and a lot more communicating by proxy: Johnny paddles the goods off to Jaehyun, who gives everything other than his vinyls to Ten, who is the only one who actually sees the shadows of Taeyong and Yuta throughout the week. Ten texts Johnny a very enthusiastic thank you, and relays equally enthusiastic thank yous from Taeyong and Yuta, which Johnny then passes on to his parents.

Each recipient receives his gifts, and Johnny’s parents receive the love of five very grateful boys, and Johnny finds himself a whole lot happier during the shitstorm that is finals because his parents are the best and his friends are too.

That is, of course, until things start crumbling before his eyes.

It happens in Starbucks, because it is only natural that it does.

Johnny walks in one day, making a beeline towards the mobile order pickup counter. Before he gets there, he sees the familiar outline of Taeyong’s horrendous posture waiting for his drink to be called. He looks a little more and sees the familiar packaging of sour patch kids clutched in Taeyong’s hand with some sweet potato snacks.

Grinning, Johnny walks up to Taeyong’s side, nudges his elbow lightly and asks, “Are you enjoying them?”

Taeyong jerks a little bit in surprise at the sudden touch. His eyes widen when he turns to face Johnny, and perhaps the fact that he didn’t relax into an easy smile should’ve been the first sign that something was wrong.

“Aha,” Taeyong starts, and that should’ve been the second sign. “Yeah, I love these candies but they’re really hard to find here.”

 _Well yeah_ , Johnny wants to say, _that’s why my parents sent them over for you?_

But Taeyong steamrolls on in the way that he does when he’s nervous, “If you want to know where I got them, though, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Finals season is really fucking with my brain and I literally have no idea when or where I bought these. They were just, like, on my desk when I woke up and I was probably in a caffeine induced haze or something, so, yeah, sorry!”

It’s easy for Johnny to recognize what’s happening.

And since he doesn’t want to make this Taeyong anxious, this Taeyong who doesn’t know Johnny Suh or Seo Youngho or anything in between, he replies, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Enjoy your drink and snacks.” He grabs his own drink quickly and hightails it out of there.

The rest of the day is terrible. Even if Johnny isn’t actively thinking about it, his mood has been shot and he can’t focus on any of the work that he has laid out in front of him.

It doesn’t hurt any less now, after the first time. If anything, it makes him feel worse. Is he really so unimportant that Taeyong would forget about him _twice_?

But again, it’s not Taeyong’s fault. That’s the most frustrating thing: there’s nobody to place blame on, when Johnny _knows_ that someone out there exists who _should_ be taking the blame. If only Taeyong would _tell him_. Then, Johnny could fucking _do something_ instead of watching Taeyong get hurt and inadvertently hurting other people in the process of dealing with an unrequited love.

Instead, Johnny has to stomach the nasty, bitter feeling of being forgotten.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

The third time it happens, Johnny isn’t even aware of it until after the fact.

He’d passed out on top of a pile of books and notes, woken up by the shrill ringing of his phone. He hadn’t checked the caller id before picking up, but when he hears the voice at the other end of the line, he thinks that maybe he should have.

Taeyong sounds positively _frantic_ , words coming out a mile a minute. Johnny’s Korean is literally good enough to keep up with law lectures, so he really should be able to understand what Taeyong is saying, and yet.

“Yongie, take a breath or two and calm down a bit for me, hm? I can’t hear what you’re saying.” Johnny tries to make his voice as soothing as possible, but it’s difficult because his brain is still barely functioning. He stands from his seat and rubs his eyes as he walks over to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. He hears Taeyong taking some breaths as he stirs the ground coffee beans in the hot water, before putting the plunger into his french press.

When Taeyong starts speaking again, it’s slower, softer. Johnny nearly spills hot coffee on himself because the first, incredibly ominous, thing that Taeyong says is: “I’m sorry.”

Johnny almost tells Taeyong to stop talking. He’s not sure he wants to hear this.

However, for all that he seems to be, Taeyong is not actually psychic. He keeps talking. He’s rambling, really, is the right way to describe it, but at least Johnny can understand him this time.

He tells Johnny that he and Ten have this tradition: they always treat themselves to dinner and a night out to celebrate the last rehearsal of the semesterly dance showcase. They’ll go out with their other friends and peers later, after they successfully perform, but this is something that the two of them like to do together, because nobody else really knows what they’ve gone through except them. They like to celebrate themselves, one of the few instances where they’ll allow themselves to appreciate all of their hard work instead of dismissing it, belittling it, arguing that they can and should be _better_.

Johnny’s not sure why Taeyong is telling him all of this, and he certainly has some choice words to say about how Taeyong and Ten never acknowledge how _brilliant_ they both are, but then Taeyong is saying:

“... and I really wanted to bring Tennie somewhere special, because the department gave him so many responsibilities this semester, not just with choreographing and performing, but organizing and directing, too, and he’s been working _so hard_ , and I think it was a subconscious thing because of how amazing the food is, but I took him to that little hole-in-the wall noodle place, and I couldn’t remember how I knew about it, and the auntie even asked me why I was with someone different, but I had no clue what she was talking about, and,” Taeyong takes a deep, shuddering inhale, “god, Johnny, I’m _sorry_.”

Johnny feels something in his chest constrict. His heart, maybe?

So this was why Taeyong called. To tell Johnny that he’d been forgotten. Again.

His ears are ringing but, after taking a few seconds to process the word vomit that just left Taeyong’s mouth, Johnny says, “It’s okay, Yongie, really.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Taeyong repeats. His voice is small. He sounds like he might cry.

“It’s just a restaurant, okay? Trust me when I tell you that it’s alright.” Johnny’s lying, but he’d do just about anything to make sure Taeyong doesn’t cry.

“It’s not just a restaurant,” he thinks he hears Taeyong say, but Taeyong whispers it so quietly that Johnny isn’t sure he even meant to say it out loud.

“Get some sleep, Yongie, it’s pretty late. You need to _rest_.”

Johnny hears rustling and he can almost imagine the way Taeyong is pouting and shaking his head.

“I think I’m gonna head to the recording studio,” he says. “I haven’t done shit today because I had a migraine. I took a nap to try to sleep it off and when I woke up, I remembered and called you, and… yeah. So, now I’m gonna see if I can be productive.”

Johnny sighs, “I know I won’t be able to stop you but let the record stand that I don’t like it.”

“Please,” Taeyong scoffs, “you act like you aren’t currently sipping on your fifth cup of coffee for the day and planning to pull an all-nighter.”

Johnny looks at the mug of coffee in his hands and reevaluates his “Taeyong is not actually psychic” judgement. He makes an offended sound in the back of his throat, even though Taeyong is right. Taeyong laughs a little, and Johnny’s chest loosens. At least he’s no longer on the verge of crying.

“I’ll let you get to it, then,” Johnny says. “And, really, Yongie, it’s fine. It’s not your fault, anyways.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong responds. He sounds kind of sad. “I’m really sorry, again, Johnny. I’ll see you later.”

The call ends. Johnny downs the last of his coffee and tries to ignore the heavy stone of unease sitting in his stomach.

He doesn’t end up pulling an all-nighter, but he comes pretty damn close.

There’s a nagging discomfort surrounding him that Johnny can’t place, something he can really only describe as “bad vibes” from the universe. He thinks back to last night’s call with Taeyong and decides to go to the noodle place. He hasn’t been there in a while and the food always makes him feel better.

Except, when he steps inside for the first time in a few weeks, the auntie foregoes her usual greeting in favor of, “Did you and Taeyong break up? Why’d he come in with another boy the other day?”

Which, well, “Um… no? We were never together in the first place? And Taeyong’s allowed to eat here with other people.”

The auntie fixes him with a _look_. “Then how come he’s the only person you’ve ever brought here and you stopped coming by yourself?”

“We’re just friends, I swear!” Johnny insists. The auntie glares at him again, fiercer this time. She jerks her head in the direction of Johnny’s usual table to tell him that she’ll get his usual order ready, but when she walks away, Johnny can hear the faint sounds of her angrily grumbling under her breath.

When she serves him his food, she still eyes him like he’s done something wrong.

So Johnny tries to think, really think about it. He’s not sure why he hadn’t brought any of his other friends here before Taeyong. He hadn’t even thought to bring Jaehyun. Maybe it was because this place reminded him of childhood comforts, and that’s what Taeyong was: a childhood comfort. He used to enjoy coming by himself, too, sitting at his table alone and pretending like uni and all the problems that came with it didn’t exist.

Now, though, he’s sitting at his table alone, thinking about Taeyong coming here with Ten instead of him and suddenly the food doesn’t taste as good and the atmosphere feels off without Taeyong’s laughter and easy conversation.

Johnny can’t tell if he’s being petty or not. It’s not like they ever said anything or made a pact to come here only with each other. He meant it when he told the auntie that Taeyong was allowed to have other friends, and friends go out to eat with each other and bring each other to their favorite places.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling, but the one thing he _is_ sure of is that he wishes he hadn’t lied when he told Taeyong that this was “just a restaurant.”

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

And then it happens again. And again. And again.

It keeps happening and it’s starting to drive Johnny insane. He never knows which Taeyong he’ll get, and he’s _scared_ now, to talk to Taeyong only to find out that he’s been forgotten.

He realizes that Taeyong forgets him in pieces, in fragments of time and space, and that makes it so much harder than if Taeyong had just forgotten him all at once.

Taeyong seems to realize this too. He stops texting, stops calling, stops FaceTiming, even more so than when he just shut the world off because he was busy. Johnny hadn’t realized an absence could be so palpable.

He just wants his Taeyong back.

He’d rather have Taeyong in his life as his friend in those awkward, jagged fragments of uncertainty than this radio silence, than nothing at all. It doesn’t matter if the glass shards of their friendship cut his palms open, raw and red. At least if he has the pieces, he can try to put them back together again.

He tried to ask Yuta and Ten about it, once.

He had invited them to take a quick study break with him, but he’s pretty sure they saw right through him. When he got there, he found Yuta and Ten already speaking to each other in hushed whispers, silencing immediately when they noticed his presence.

He had tried to ease into his questions with small talk for all of five seconds before both of them leveled twin unimpressed looks at him and he cut to the chase.

He had tried to convince them to tell him where Taeyong was, because they certainly knew, so Johnny could tell him _in person_ that Johnny didn’t blame him for anything. He knew that Taeyong wouldn’t believe him even if the words poured out of his mouth, honest and true, but he wanted to _try_.

The more he had tried to convince them, the more unwilling they had seemed to entertain him. Yuta had looked increasingly uneasy, while Ten went straight to anger. Johnny didn’t blame Ten for that; it’s just the way Ten is: fiercely protective, a blaze set to burn anything to the ground in defense of the people he loves.

Johnny had pushed too much, and Ten had snapped, had all but snarled at him, “Do you know _why_ we absolutely won’t let you see him? Do you know how bad it’s gotten? He gets panic attacks now, when he forgets. He’s so anxious all the time, even when he remembers, because he’s scared of the next time he’ll forget, and the crushing guilt of remembering that he forgot, and it’s _terrifying_ , Johnny. It’s _terrifying_ to see him like that. It was me who had told you where to find him the first time, when all this shit started, and I’d be damned if I let it happen again.”

Johnny didn’t blame Ten for his anger, but he was stubborn and distressed and _sad_ , and he had snarled back, “Why are you hiding him from me? You’re not his keeper and I haven’t done anything to hurt him. _He’s_ the one forgetting _me_ , if you don’t remember, and it feels like fucking _shit_. If anything, shouldn’t I be the one who needs protecting? And why do you get to decide what’s best for him?”

“Oh, like _you_ would know better than _me_? Than _us_?” Ten had retorted as he gestured between himself and Yuta. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to lay claim on Taeyong and suggest that you would be better at looking after his well-being than we are, just because you were _acquaintances_ when you were younger.” Ten had said acquaintances with so much venom, you’d think he was saying mortal enemies instead.

“Tennie, it’s not really Johnny’s fault. You know that,” Yuta had whispered as he curled a hand around Ten’s arm and tugged him back slightly.

Ten’s anger had diminished just barely. He had looked at Johnny, then, eyes calculating and unreadable before he had sighed, “I hate to quote _Game of Thrones_ , but you really know nothing, John Suh.”

They had grabbed their bags and left, leaving Johnny only more confused, more frustrated, more desperate to see Taeyong.

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

Now, he’s sitting next to Jaehyun on the couch in the living room of his apartment, papers and laptops and empty cans of energy drinks and mugs half full of coffee littered across the table and ground in front of them.

Johnny’s been trying to review his History of East Asian Law notes for the past two hours, but the only thing that he can remember is that basically the only reason why the Qing Legal Code was characterized by Westerners as penal and backwards was because of one white dude’s translation. There’s a resounding thought of “fuck Sir George Thomas Staunton” ringing around his mind, but that’s pretty much as far as his fruitless studying has taken him.

He’s aggressively flipping through the pages of his notebook when Jaehyun cuts through the sound of paper moving with a firm, “Johnny. Stop. What’s wrong?”

Johnny doesn’t say anything, just stares unseeingly at the mess of notes in front him. But Jaehyun knows him better than almost anyone, and says, “It’s about Taeyong, isn’t it?”

Johnny slumps back into the couch and nods. “It’s just so frustrating, like. Why is he forgetting _me_ , of all people, when I haven’t even done anything? Why am I being punished, when I’m Taeyong’s _friend_ who wants to _help_? How is that fair? And who’s the fucking jackass who doesn’t love Taeyong back? How can someone not fall in love with him?”

“Holy shit, you really are an idiot,” Jaehyun says. Johnny turns to glare at him, only to find Jaehyun looking at him with something like exasperation, exasperation and pity, in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johnny asks, but Jaehyun ignores him.

“ _I’m_ certainly not in love with him.”

“Well, duh,” Johnny laughs. “You and Ten are perfect for each other—two halves of the same devious, competitive whole.”

“Okay, but _you’re_ not in love with him either,” Jaehyun states. He has the same calculating, unreadable look on his face that Ten had not too long ago. “Are you?”

“Before you answer,” Jaehyun continues, cutting Johnny off when he opens his mouth to protest, “fucking _think_ about it. Think about what he makes you feel and why you care so much about this, about being forgotten and about someone not loving him back.”

So, for the second time in the span of a week, Johnny tries to think, really think about it.

He thinks about how hanging out with Taeyong—spending time with him, just _being_ with him, when they aren’t even really doing anything—is like a blanket of comfort. There’s a peace that settles into his bones when he’s with Taeyong, a peace that pacifies his racing heart on his worst days, a peace that allows him to regain energy, to refocus and reinvigorate himself for what’s to come. He thinks about how it feels like he can still see the fifth grade version of Taeyong when he sees him now, how Taeyong still looks at the world with stars in his eyes, with wonder and positivity, and how that makes Johnny want not only to protect Taeyong, but to be better, too, better and brighter.

He thinks about the devastating feeling of being forgotten, how crushed he’d become every time the fact was exploded in his face that maybe, just maybe, Lee Taeyong could live a life with Johnny Suh or Seo Youngho or anything in between and be perfectly fine. He thinks about how Taeyong forgetting him _hurts_ because he wants to _mean_ something to Taeyong, to be somebody important and irreplaceable, forever if he can.

He thinks about how perplexed he was to learn that there was someone out there who didn’t fall in love with Taeyong. He thinks about how _offended_ he was when Taeyong had told him that his love was unrequited, how he couldn’t even fathom the possibility. He thinks about how _he_ wants to be the one to show Taeyong just how worthy of love he is, Taeyong who is selfless and diligent and so unbelievably kind, and-

“ _Oh_ ,” Johnny murmurs softly. “Oh my _god_.”

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Jaehyun snorts, but he’s beaming at Johnny, eyes scrunched into crescent moons and dimples out in full force.

“Oh my god, Jaehyun, what the fuck do I do?”

“Excuse me? What do you mean ‘what the fuck do I do’? _Tell him_!”

“I can’t just- I can’t just _tell him_ , dude, he’s in love with somebody else! That’s why we’re in this situation in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Johnny.” Jaehyun exhales a long-suffering sigh. “You’re my best friend and I love you to death, but you’re a dense piece of shit, you know that?”

“Wh-”

“Taeyong is _in love with you_ , you absolute, fucking _imbecile_. I literally cannot believe I have to spell this out for you. Why the hell do you think he’s only forgotten _you_ , out of all of us? Wouldn’t it make sense that the disease makes him forget _you_ because it’s trying to give him some reprieve from his unrequited love? Why would it make him forget a friend?”

“But-”

“And even if he doesn’t love you, which is so unlikely that it’s not even funny, you should tell him that you love him because it’ll bring you peace of mind. No, wait, even better since I know how much you like to be the martyr. Even if he doesn’t love you, tell him that you love him to bring him comfort, okay? You’ll be telling him that somebody out there _does_ love him and that he deserves to be loved. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for him.”

Johnny shoots Jaehyun an incredulous look, “When the fuck did you develop _emotional intelligence_ , my guy?”

Jaehyun laughs, “Being in love will do that to you. Now, are you going to do something about it, or not?”

╳ ╳ ╳ ╳ ╳

It’s fucking freezing, in the beginning of winter, but Johnny has so much adrenaline pumping through his veins that he barely feels the cold biting his skin.

He’s nervous. He’s so nervous he thinks his heart will beat right out of his chest, but he’s also a man on a mission: see Taeyong; confess; deal with the consequences afterwards.

Yuta had let him know where Taeyong was, albeit indirectly. Ten would’ve sooner sent Johnny to an early grave than let him see Taeyong again (even if Jaehyun was the one asking), so his only choice, really, had been to ask Yuta instead.

The texts that are now in his phone weigh his pockets down, heavy with warning.

 _taeyong’s eyes are silver now_ , Yuta had said, _and the colorblindness that comes with star tear disease? it’s not the “can’t distinguish between two colors” kind. it’s way more literal than that: he can’t see color anymore, johnny. his world is literally black and white, and i know you didn’t mean to, but it /is/ still because of you. please be careful with him, and his heart. i won’t stop ten from murdering you if you aren’t. i’d be more than glad to help him hide your cold, dead body._

And that had shaken Johnny to his very core. Hell, forget _Ten_ ’s anger, how the fuck had he let it get this bad? How had he let Taeyong suffer so much?

But, more than anything, Yuta’s text had been confirmation. Johnny could _fix this_. He knew he could, because even if Jaehyun had only been speculating, Yuta would _know_. He was the one who told Taeyong about what the disease was, after all. Yuta _knew_ , and he had _confirmed_ , that Taeyong loved Johnny, and now Johnny knew that he loved Taeyong right back and he could _fix this_. He just needed to know where Taeyong was.

_i won’t tell you where he is, in case you fuck up and ten comes for me too, but i’ll say this: you /know/ where to find him. he only has one more assignment left to finish and he overworks himself to /death/, works himself down to the bone, especially when he’s stressed. you do the math._

It had taken Johnny months to figure out his feelings, but piecing together _this_ puzzle was quick, instantaneous. Of course Taeyong would’ve locked himself up in his favorite recording studio, trying to finish his music production project.

Johnny had shoved on a coat, grabbed his keys and his wallet, and jammed his feet into the closest pair of shoes he could find. He’d left Jaehyun alone in his living room, but if the fond grin on Jaehyun’s face was anything to go by, he didn’t mind at all.

So now Johnny’s trudging across campus in the dead of night, cold wind whipping his cheeks red. He can barely feel it, but he deserves the sting, he thinks, for making Taeyong wait so long.

When he finally reaches the music department, he uses his student ID to swipe himself into after-hours access to the building. His feet bring him along a familiar path to the elevators, to floor 7, studio room 1.

Johnny stands outside the door for a minute, debating. He decides to do the impolite thing, to see if the handle gives and to enter without knocking if Taeyong hasn’t locked the door. He doesn’t want to give Taeyong the chance to turn him away, not when Johnny has this big, _namable_ thing at the tip of his tongue, one drop, one glance at Taeyong, from spilling over.

Luckily, the handle turns easily and Johnny slips inside. The lights are dimmed low, as they usually are when Taeyong is working, but the air is static, silent.

Taeyong has fallen asleep at the mixing board, head pillowed by his forearms. Johnny looks around and sees that Taeyong has sticky notes and random papers filled with lyrics spread out on what seems like every inch of available space. 

Next to Taeyong’s head sits an open notebook. It looks more organized than the scattered bits everywhere, and normally, Johnny wouldn’t pick it up without permission, but something compels him to gently lift the notebook off the table, safe in his hands. He gingerly takes a seat in the chair next to Taeyong’s, careful not to make too much noise. Taeyong is, after all, a light sleeper.

Johnny flips through the pages of the notebook, a track name neatly underlined every few pages. Under each name, there’s a date and notes and lyrics. And as Johnny flips and flips and flips, skims over page after page after page, he sees that all of the notes have… him?

He sees it everywhere, over and over and over again, as if Taeyong has written his name down like a prayer.

With a hammering heart, Johnny closes the notebook quickly and nearly drops it back on the table like it burns. His eyes flit around anywhere, to look at anything but the notebook with words that he thinks could tear his heart to shreds. His eyes, however, do not land on something better or more innocent.

Bright on the screen of Taeyong’s monitor is his album.

Johnny hasn’t listened to the revised product yet. Taeyong had let him into his studio in the first half of the semester, before the critique with his supervising professor, and had given Johnny the privilege of listening to his works-in-progress, had actually taken note of comments that Johnny gave him and incorporated them into his music. But Johnny doesn’t know what this new album sounds like at all.

The headphones on the table draw Johnny in, along with his own curiosity. Maybe the shake of his hands as he plugged the headphones in should’ve warned him that this wasn’t a good idea, but Johnny has never been one for impulse control.

He hits play.

It’s really not a good idea. Immediately, twinkling sounds fill his ears, and Johnny _knows_ what they are. He remembers them, perhaps too clearly, from the one time Taeyong had played those same sounds for him. It was proof, then, and it is proof now, proof of how much he has been hurting.

The lyrics, too, are proof. Taeyong’s low voice spills the secret of his love, of his heartbreak and longing and tears, his star tears, and Johnny hates himself, more than a little bit, for being so late. For making Taeyong feel _that_ much pain, pure and raw. A knife to the gut would hurt less, Johnny thinks, than listening to the pain he inflicted upon Taeyong, regardless of whether he knew or not.

The songs play one after another, a full album’s worth, telling Johnny exactly how he broke Taeyong’s heart.

Johnny has to bite back a strangled noise what feels like every other minute. If he hadn’t realized before, it hits him now, a freight train moving at breakneck pace, that he loves Taeyong, really, _truly_ loves him. Listening to Taeyong’s side of the story, Johnny realizes his own emotions, at the time unnamed and tamped down in an effort to make it hurt less. He realizes that whenever Taeyong had forgotten, his missing presence felt like sawing his own arm off, only to be left with a phantom limb. He realizes it hurt too much for it to be anything else but love. He realizes that he had missed Taeyong like an ache, when Taeyong had forgotten, and that Johnny misses him even when he remembers, too.

His eyes sting with unshed tears and his lips are bitten raw, but he can’t risk rousing Taeyong from sleep, not now, not when Taeyong finally looks like he’s at peace.

He’s not entirely successful. At one point, Johnny has to remind himself to _breathe_ , and the breath that he takes is shaky and deep. Evidently that, and his heavy exhale, is enough.

Taeyong wakes up. Johnny watches as Taeyong blinks the world back into focus. Taeyong’s face is illuminated by the light of the monitor. It washes his skin out, but he looks ethereal all the same. Taeyong’s eyes are illuminated by the light of the monitor as well, and Johnny stares, transfixed. He feels his breath catch.

Taeyong’s blinking had gotten faster and faster and now he’s holding his hands up to his face in confusion. He looks around his studio, looks at his mixing board and the rainbow of sticky notes littered across the space and his monitor where all the layers of audio are displayed on the screen, color coded. Johnny watches as he scrambles for his phone, as he opens up the front facing camera and sees the last of the color he had lost bleed back into his irises.

Taeyong turns, slowly, so _fucking_ slowly, towards the chair where Johnny sits. His eyes are blown wide open in wonder. They aren’t silver, like Yuta said they’d be, but the beautiful, comforting brown that Johnny loves. _Loves_.

“Johnny?”

Taeyong’s voice sounds so tentative, so small. There's a glimmer of hope there that breaks Johnny's heart.

His tears spill.

“Johnny- hey-”

“I'm sorry it took me so long,” Johnny says right before a sob wrecks through his body. “Taeyong, god, I- I’m so fucking sorry it took me so long, but I’m here now and I want to make this right and I’m so sorry, Taeyong, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, _so sorry_ -”

Taeyong laughs, loud and bright but watery at the same time, as he scoots his chair closer to Johnny’s and wraps him up in a hug. Johnny slings his arms around Taeyong’s waist and buries his face in the crook of Taeyong’s neck, still crying. Taeyong’s still laughing as he climbs out of his chair to perch himself in Johnny’s lap, a more comfortable position with how _tightly_ Johnny’s gripping onto him.

Taeyong runs his fingers through Johnny’s hair, whispering little reassurances into Johnny’s ear. Johnny doesn’t think it’s very fair of himself, to have Taeyong comforting him now when it’s Taeyong who’s been the one hurting for so long, but he thinks that’s just something he’ll have to get better at, over time.

There was one song at the end of Taeyong’s album, one song out of around a dozen, that told a story of hope. It was Taeyong’s happy ending for himself, for himself and Johnny, and it sounded something like this:

Johnny’s rapid heartbeat calming with Taeyong’s touch, as he clings to Taeyong like he’s a lifeline; Taeyong smiling that fond, gentle little smile of his and saying, “I love you, too,” when Johnny had finally stopped hiccuping; Johnny tracing patterns into Taeyong’s skin through the thin material of Taeyong’s shirt as he apologized more times than he could count but never enough; Taeyong waving the apologies away with a “You’re here now and that’s all that matters to me, really” and Johnny declaring, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I swear.”

They kiss—for the first time, the second, the third, and all the times yet to come—and it feels like home.

They walk out of the building, hands clutched together and shoved into one of the pockets of Johnny’s jacket like they’re scared of letting go.

Taeyong burrows himself into Johnny’s side, giggling and _happy_. God, he sounds so _happy_ and Johnny hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing Taeyong sound this carefree.

It’s fucking freezing, in the beginning of winter, but Taeyong snuggles impossibly closer and it’s warm. Johnny feels _so warm_.

Johnny rests his cheek against Taeyong’s head, tilts his head to look at the sky.

The stars are twinkling up there, right where they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew just made the 4 week mark! I know i said happy ending, but i’m shit at writing actual relationships, so i’m sorry that the “happy” part is short,,,, i also made a pretty conscious effort to use images/themes/phrases from other fics of mine (including non-johnyong fics lol) bc i thought it’d be a fun way to tie my works together! idk if anyone noticed but i thought i’d mention that heh
> 
> finals season at my uni straight up lasts like a full month (two weeks before reading week + reading week + finals week) which is why they’re in grind mode for so long a;sdlkfj
> 
> lmk what you thought!! first ever star tear disease au in nct ficdom (i think??) i hope i did the concept justice! i've barely proofread this bc i was too excited to post, so please yell if there are any glaring mistakes :S comments & kudos are always appreciated ^.^ ♡
> 
>   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/maddogmp3) || [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/maddogmp3)


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